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Young  outlaw,  or,  Adrift  in  the  st 


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Boy,  is  this  Canal  Street?" 


M^/  ^^COHD  ^Fini^^ 


oratio 


THE  YOUxNG  OUTLAW: 


OR. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS, 


BY 


HOKATIO    ALGER,  Jr., 

author  of  *'  ragfged  dick,"  "  tattered  tom,"  "  luck  and  pluck," 
"brave  and  bold"  series. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PORTER    &    COATES. 


t  4&«.W.PW 


FAMOUS  ALGEE  BOOKS. 


/  OOL'    Illustrated,  Cloth,  Extra,  Slack  and  Gold. 

RAGGED  DICK  SERIES.     Complete  in  six  Yols.    Price  per  vol.,  $1  25. 

Ragged  Dick ;  or,  Street  Life  in  New  York. 

Fame  and  Fortune  ;  or,  The  Progress  of  Richard  Huuter. 

Mark  the  Match  Boy. 

Rough  and  Ready  ;  or,  Life  among  the  New  York  Newsboys. 

Ben  the  Luggage-Boy;  or.  Among  the  Wharves. 

Rufus  and  Rose ;  or,  The  Fortunes  of  Rough  and  Ready. 

TATTERED  T03I  SERIES.    A  Continuation  of  the  Ragged  Dick  Series. 
Price  per  vol.,  $1  25. 

First  Series.      Complete  in  four  vols. 
Tattered  Tom  ;  or,  The  Story  of  a  Street  Arab. 

Paul  the  Peddler;  or,  The  Adventures  of  a  Young  Street  Merchant. 
Phil  the  Fiddler;  or,  The  Young  Street  Musician. 
Slow  and  Sure ;  or.  From  the  Sidewalk  to  the  Shop. 

Second  Series.     Complete  in  four  vols. 
Julius;  or,  The  Street  Boy  out  West. 
The  Young  Outlaw  ;  or,  Adrift  in  the  World. 
Sam's  Chance,  and  How  he  Improved  It. 
The  District  Telegraph  Boy. 

CAMPAIGN  SERIES.     Complete  in  three  vols.     Price  per  vol.,  $1  25. 

Frank's  Campaign. 
Paul  Prescott's  Charge^ 
Charlie  Cod  man's  Cruise. 

LUCK  AND  PLUCK  SERIES.    Price  per  vol.,  $1  50. 

First  Series.     Complete  in  four  vols. 

Luck  and  Pluck;  or,  John  Oakley's  Inheritance. 
Sink  or  Swira  ;  or,  Harry  Raymond's  Resolve. 
Strong  and  Steady;  or.  Paddle  your  Own  Canoe. 
Strive  and  Succeed  ;  or,  The  Progress  of  Walter  Conrad. 
Second  Series.     Complete  in  four  vols. 

Try  and  Trust;  or.  The  Story  of  a  Bound  Boy. 
Bound  to  Rise;  or.  How  Harry  Walton  Rose  in  the  World. 
Risen  from  the  Ranks;  or,  Harry  Walton's  Success. 
Herbert  Carter's  Legacy  ;  or,  The  Inventor's  Son. 

BR  ATE  AND  BOLD  SERIES.  Complete  in  four  vols.  Price  per  vol.,  SI  50. 

Brave  and  Bold  ;  or,  The  Story  of  a  Factory  Boy. 
Jack's  Ward  ;  or.  The  Boy  Guardian. 
Shifting  for  Himself;  or,  Gilbert  Greyson's  Fortunes. 
Wait  and  Hope ;  or,  Ben  Bradford's  Motto. 

PACIFIC  SERIES.    Complete  in  four  vols.    Price  per  vol.,  $1  25. 

The  Young  Adventurer  ;  or,  Tom's  Trip  across  the  Plains. 
The  Young  JNIiner;  or,  Tom  Nelson  in  California. 
The  Young  Explorers ;  or.  Among  the  Sierras. 
{Fourth,  volume  in  preparation.) 


Copyright  by  A.  K.  Loring,  1875. 


Ea 


MT  TOUNG  FRIEND, 


HAR.HY  L.   DE  VISSER, 


THIS    VOLUME 


IS 


AFFECTIONATEIiY    DEDICATED. 


PEEFACE. 


"The  Young  Outlaw"  is  the  sixth  volume 
of  the  Tattered  Tom  Series,  and  the  twelfth  of 
the  stories  which  are  wholly  or  mainly  devoted 
to  street-life  in  New  York.  The  story  carries 
its  moral  with  it,  and  the  writer  has  little  fear 
that  the  Young  Outlaw  will  be  selected  as  a 
model  by  the  boys  who  may  read  his  adventures, 
and  be  amused  by  the  scrapes  into  which  he 
manages  to  fall.  In  previous  volumes  he  has 
endeavored  to  show  that  even  a  street-boy,  by 
enterprise,  industry  and  integrity,  may  hope 
to  become  a  useful  and  respected  citizen.  In 
the  present  narration  he  aims  to  exhibit  the 
opposite  side  of  the  picture,  and  point  out 
the  natural  consequences  of  the  lack  of  these 
qualities. 


VIU  F  E  E  FA  CE  , 

This  may  be  a  proper  occasion  to  express 
gratitude  for  the  very  remarkable^^vor  with 
which  these  stories  of  humble  life  have  been 
received  throughout  the  country.  The  writer 
is  glad  to  believe  that  they  have  done  something 
to  draw  attention  to  a  neglected  class  of  chil- 
dren, whom  it  is  important  to  elevate  and 
redeem.  ^ 

New  York,  March  25,  1875. 


• 


THE  YOUNG  OUTLAW; 


OK, 


ADEIFT   IN   THE    STEEETS. 

*  CPIAPTER  I. 

THE  TOUKG   OUTLAW. 

' '  Boy,  is  tMs  Canal  Street  ?  " 

The  speaker  was  evidently  from  the  country.  He 
was  a  tall  man,  with  prominent  features,  and  a  face 
seamed  and  wrinkled  by  the  passage  of  nearly 
seventy  years.  He  wore  a  rusty  cloak,  in  the  stjde 
of  thirty  years  gone  by,  and  his  clothing  generally 
was  of  a  fashion  seldom  seen  on  Broadway. 

The  boy  addressed  was  leaning  against  a  lamj)- 
post,  with  both  hands  in  his  pockets.  His  clothe? 
were  soiled  and  ragged,  a  soft  hat,  which  looked  as  if 
it  had  served  in  its  varied  career  as  a  foot-ball,  was 
thrust  carelessly  on  his  head.     He  looked  like  a 


10  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR^ 

genuine  representative  of  the  "  street  Arab,"  with  no 
thought  for  to-morrow  and  its  needs,  and  contented 
if  he  could  only  make  sure  of  a  square  meal  to-day. 
His  face  was  dirty,  and  marked  by  a  mingled  ex- 
pression of  fun  and  impudence ;  but  the  features 
were  not  unpleasing,  and,  had  he  been  clean  and 
neatly  dressed,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  been 
considered  good-looking. 

He  turned  quickly  on  being  addressed,  and  started 
perceptibty,  as  his  glance  met  the  inquiring  look 
of  the  tall,  stranger.  He  seemed  at  first  disposed  to 
run  away,  but  this  intention  was  succeeded  by  a 
desire  to  have  some  fun  with  the  old  man. 

"  Canal  Street's  about  a  mile  off.  I'll  show  ver 
the  way  for  ten  cents." 

"A  mile  off?  That's  strange,"  said  the  old  man, 
puzzled.  ' '  They  told  me  at  the  Astor  House  it  was 
only  about  ten  minutes'  walk,  straight  up." 

"  That's  where  you  got  sold,  gov'nor.  Give  me 
ten  cents,  and  you  won't  have  no  more  trouble." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  know  Canal  Street,  j^ourself?" 
said  the  old  man,  perplexed.  *' They'd  ought  to 
know  at  the  hotel." 


ADRIFT  JJV  THE   STREETS,  11 

"  rd  ought  to  know  too.  That's  where  my  store 
is." 

*' Your  store!"  ejaculated  the  old  man.  fixing  his 
eyes  upon  his  ragged  companion,  who  certainly 
looked  very  little  like  a  New  York  merchant. 

''  In  course.  Don't  I  keep  a  cigar  store  at 
No.  95?" 

"I  hope  you  don't  smoke  yourself,"  said  the 
deacon  (for  he  was  a  deacon) ,  solemnly. 

"  Yes,  I  do.     My  constitushun  requires  it." 

"  My  boy,  you  are  doing  a  lasting  injury  to  your 
health,"  said  the  old  man,  impressively. 

"  Oh,  I'm  tough.  I  kin  stand  it.  Better  give  me. 
a  dime,  and  let  me  show  yer  the  way." 

The  deacon  was  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  Canal  Street, 
and  after  some  hesitation,  for  he  was  fond  of  money, 
he  drew  out  ten  cents,  and  handed  it  to  his  ragged 
companion. 

"There,  my  boy,  show  me  the  way.  I  should 
think  3^ou  might  have  done  it  for  nothing." 

"  That  aint  the  way  we  do  business  in  the  city, 
gov'nor." 

*'  Well,  go  ahead,  I'm  in  a  hurry," 


12  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAiV;    OR, 

"You  needn't  be,  for  tJiis  is  Canal  Street,"  said 
the  boy,  edging  off  a  little. 

"  Then  you've  swindled  me,"  said  the  deacon, 
wratbfuUy.     "  Give  me  back  that  ten  cents." 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,"  said  the  boy,  mocMngly. 
"That  aint  the  way  we  do  business  in  the  city. 
I'm  goin'  to  buy  two  five-cent  cigars  with  that 
money." 

"You  said  you  kept  a  cigar-store  yourself,"  said 
the  deacon,  with  sudden  recollection. 

' '  You  mustn't  believe  all  you  hear,  goVnor,"  said 
the  boy,  laughing  saucily. 

"  Well  now,  if  you  ain't  a  bad  boy,"  said  the  old 
man. 

"What's  the  odds  as  long  as  you're  happy?" 
said  the  young  Arab,  carelessly. 

Here  was  a  good  chance  for  a  moral  lesson,  and 
the  deacon  felt  that  it  was  his  duty  to  point  out  to 
the  3^oung  reprobate  the  error  of  his  ways. 

"My  young  friend,"  he  said,  "how  can  you 
expect  to  be  happy  when  you  lie  and  cheat?  Such 
men  are  never  happy." 


ADRmf  IN  THE   STREETS,  13 

"  Alnt  they  though?  You  bet  JE'U  be  happy  when 
I'm  smokin'  the  two  cigars  I'm  goin'  to  buy." 

"  Keep  the  money,  but  don't  buy  the  cigars," 
said  the  deacon,  religion  getting  the  better  of  his 
love  of  money.  "Buy  yourself  some  clothes.  You 
appear  to  need  them." 

"Buy  clo'es  with  ten  cents!"  repeated  the  boy, 
humorously. 

"At  any  rate,  devote  the  money  to  a  useful  pur- 
pose, and  I  shall  not  mind  being'  cheated  out  of  it. 
If  you  keep  on  this  way,  you'll  end  in  the  gallus." 

"  That's  comin'  it  rather  strong,  gov'nor.  Hang- 
in' s  played  out  in  New  York.  I  guess  I'm  all 
right." 

"I'm  afraid  j^ou're  all  wrong,  my  boy.  You're 
travellin'  to  destruction." 

"Let's  change  the  subject,"  said  the  street  boy. 
"  You're  gittin'  personal,  and  I  don't  like  i^ersonal 
remarks.     What '11  you  bet  I  can't  tell  3^our  name?'"" 

"  Bet !  "  ejaculated  the  deacon,  horrified. 

"  Yes,  gov'nor.  I'U  bet  you  a  quarter  I  kin  tell 
your  name." 


14  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

"I  never  bet.  It's  wicked,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  emphasis. 

"  Well,  we  won't  bet,  then,"  said  the  boy. 
"  Only,  if  I  tell  your  name  right,  you  give  me  ten 
cents.  If  I  don't  get  it  right,  I'll  give  back  this 
dime  you  gave  me.     Aint  that  fair?  " 

The  deacon  might  have  been  led  to  suspect  that 
there  was  not  much  difference  between  the  boy's 
proposal,  and  the  iniquity  of  a  bet,  but  his  mind  was 
rather  possessed  by  the  thought  that  here  was  a  good 
chance  to  recover  the  money  out  of  which  he  had 
been  so  adroitly  cheated.  -  Surely  there  was  no 
wrong  in  recovering  that,  as  of  course  he  would  do, 
for  how  could  a  ragged  street  boy  tell  the  name  of 
one  who  lived  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  distant,  in  a 
small  country  town  ? 

''  rU  do  it,"  said  the  deacon. 

"  You'U  give  me  ten  cents  if  I  tell  your  name?  '* 

"  Yes,  and  you'll  give  me  back  the  money  I  give 
you  if  you  can't  tell." 

"  That's  it,  gov'nor." 

*'Then  what's    my    name,    my   boy?**    and  the 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  15 

deacon  extended  his  hand  in  readiness  to  receive  the 
forfeit  of  a  wrong  answer. 

"  Deacon  John  Hopkins,"  answered  the  boy, 
confidently. 

The  efi'ect  on  the  old  man  was  startling*.  He  was 
never  more  surprised  in  his  life.  He  stared  at  the 
boy  open-mouthed,  in  bewilderment  and  wonder. 

"Well,  I  declare!"  he  ejaculated.  "I  never 
heard  of  such  a  thing." 

' '  Aint  I  right,  goVnor  ?  " 

*'  Yes,  my  boy,  you're  right ;  but  how  on  earth  did 
you  find  out  ?  '* 

"Give  me  the  money,  and  I'll  tell  you;"  and 
the  boy  extended  his  hand. 

The  deacon  drew  the  money  from  his  vest-pocket, 
and  handed  it  to  the  young  Arab,  without  remon- 
strance. 

"  Now  tell  me,  my  boy,  how  you  knoVd  me." 

The  boy  edged  off  a  few  feet,  then  lifted  his  vener- 
able hat  so  as  to  display  the  whole  of  his  face. 

"I'd  ought  to  know  you,  deacon,"  he  said;  "I'm 
Ram  Barker." 


16  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OE, 

''  By  gracious,  if  it  aint  Sam  !  "  ejaculated  the  old 

man.     "  Hallo  !  stoj),  I  say  !  " 

But  Sam  was  half-way  across  the  street.  The  dea- 
con hesitated  an  instant,  and  then  dashed  after  him,- 
his  long  cloak  floating  in  the  wind,  and  his  hat  un- 
consciousty  pushed  back  on  the  top  of  his  head. 

"  Stop,  you  Sam !  "  he  shouted. 

But  Sam,  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  already 
three  rods  in  advance,  giinned  provokingl}',  but 
appeared  to  have  no  intention  of  stopping.  The  dea- 
con was  not  used  to  running,  nor  did  he  make  due 
allowance  for  the  difficulty  of  navigating  the  crowded 
streets  of  the  metropolis.  He  dashed  headlong  into 
an  apple-stand,  and  suffered  disastrous  shipwreck 
The  apple-stand  was  overturned,  the  deacon's  hat 
flew  off,  and  he  found  himself  sprawling  on  the  side- 
walk, with  apples  rolling  in  all  dii-ections  around 
him,  and  an  angr}^  dame  showering  maledictions  upon 
him,  and  demanding  compensation  for  damages. 

The  deacon  picked  himself  up,  bruised  and 
ashamed,  recovered  his  hat,  which  had  rolled  into  a 
mud-puddle,  and  was  forced  to  pa}-  the  woman  a 
dollar  before  he  could  get  away.      When  this  matter 


AnniFT  ijsr  the  streets,  17 

was  settled,  he  looked  for  Sam,  but  the  boy  was  out 
of  sight.  In  fact,  ho  was  just  around  the  corner, 
laughing  as  if  he  would  split.  He  had  seen  his  pur- 
suer's discomfiture,  and  regarded  it  as  a  huge  practi- 
cal joke. 

"I  never  had  such  fun  in  all  my  life,"  he  ejac- 
ulated, with  diflSculty,  and  he  went  off  into  a  fresh 
convulsion.  "  The  old  feller  won't  forget  me  in  a 
hurry." 


18  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    0R\ 


CHAPTEK   II. 

sam's  early    life. 

Three  years  before  the  meeting  described  in  the 
previous  chapter  Sara  Barker  became  an  orphan,  by 
the  death  of  his  father.  The  father  was  an  intem- 
perate man,  and  no  one  grieved  much  for  his  death. 
Sam  felt  rather  relieved  than  otherwise.  He  had 
received  many  a  beating  from  his  father,  in  his  fits  of 
di'unken  fury,  and  had  been  obliged  to  forage  for 
himself  for  the  most  part,  getting  a  meal  from  one 
neighbor,  a  basket  of  provision  from  another,  and  so 
managed  to  eke  out  a  precarious  subsistence  in  the 
tumble-down  shanty  which  he  and  his  father  occu- 
pied. 

Mr.  Barker  left  no  will,  for  the  good  and  sufficient 
reason  that  he  had  no  property  to  dispose  of.  So, 
on  the  day  after  the  faneral,  Sam  found  himself  a 
candidate  for  the  poorhouse.  He  was  a  stout  boy 
of  twelve,  strong  and  sturdy  in  spite  of  insufficient 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  19 

food,  and  certainly  had  suffered  nothing  from  luxuri- 
ous living. 

It  was  a  country  town  in  Connecticut,  near  the 
Rhode  Island  border.  We  will  call  it  Dudley.  The 
selectmen  deliberated  what  should  be  done  with 
Sam. 

' '  There  isn't  much  for  a  lad  like  him  to  do  at  the 
poorhouse,"  said  Major  Stebbins.  "  He'd  ought  to 
be  set  to  work.  Why  don't  you  take  him,  Deacon 
Hopkins  ?  " 

"  I  do  need  a  boy,"  said  the  deacon,  "but  I'm 
most  afeard  to  take  Sam.  He's  a  dreadful  mischiev- 
ous boy,  I've  heerd." 

"  He's  had  a  bad  example  in  his  father,"  said  the 
major.  "  You  could  train  him  up  the  way  he'd  ought 
to  go." 

"  Mebbe  I  could,"  said  the  deacon,  flattered  by  this 
tribute,  and  reflecting,  moreover,  that  he  could  get  a 
good  deal  of  work  out  of  Sam  without  being  obliged 
to  pay  him  wages. 

"  You  could  train  him  up  to  be  a  respectable  mar," 
said  the  major.  "  They  wouldn't  know  what  to  do 
with  him  at  the  poorhouse." 


20  TRE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OE, 

So  the  deacon  was  prevailed  upon  to  take  Sam  to 
bring  up. 

"You're  goin'  to  live  with  me,  Samuel,"  said  the 
deacon,  calling  the  boy  to  his  side. 

"  Am  I?"  asked  Sam,  surveying  the  old  man  at- 
tentively. 

"  Yes  ;  I  shall  try  to  make  a  man  of  you." 

"  I'll  get    to  be   a  man  anywa}^,   if  I  live   long 
enough,"  said  Sam. 

"I  mean  I  will  make  a  man  of  you  in   a  moral 
sense,"  explained  the  deacon. 

This,  however,  was  above  Sam's  comprehension. 

"  What  would  you  like  to  do  when  you're  a  man?" 
asked  the  deacon. 

"Smoke  a  pipe,"  answered  Sam,  after  some  re- 
flection. ' 

The  deacon  held  up  his  hands  in  horror. 

"What  a  misguided  youth!"  he  exclaimed. 
•'  Can  3^ou  think  of  nothing  better  than  to  smoke  a 
pipe  ?  " 

"  Dad  lilted  it,"  said  Sam ;  "  but  I  guess  he  liked 
rum  better." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  21 

"  Your  father  was  a  misguided  man,"  said  the  dea- 
con.    "  He  wasted  his  substance  in  riotous  living." 

"  You'd  ought  to  have  seen  him  when  he  was 
tight,"  said  Sam,  confidentially^  "Didn't  he  tear 
round  then?  He'd  fling  sticks  of  wood  at  jny  head. 
O jolly!  Didn't  I  run?  I  used  to  hide  under  the 
bed  when  I  couldn't  run  out  of  doors." 

''Your  father's  dead  and  gone.  I  don't  want  to 
talk  against  him,  but  I  hope  j^ou'U  grow  up  a  very 
different  man.  Do  you  think  you  will  like  to  live 
with  me  ?  " 

"I  guess  so,"  said  Sam.  "You  live  in  a  good 
house,  where  the  rain  don't  leak  through  the  roof  on 
your  head.  You'll  give  me  lots  to  eat,  too ;  won't 
you?" 

"You  shall  have  enough,"  said  the  deacon,  cau- 
tiously, "  but  it  is  bad  to  over-eat.  Boys  ought  to 
be  moderate." 

"  I  didn't  over-eat  to  home,"  said  Sam.  "  I  went 
one  day  without  eatin'  a  crumb." 

' '  You  shall  have  enough  to  eat  at  my  house,  bu/ 
you  must  render  a  return." 

"What's  that?" 


22  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW ;    OB, 

"  You  must  pa}^  me  for  it." 

"  I  can't ;   I  aint  got  a  cent." 

''Ton  shall  i:>ay  me  in  work.  He  that  does  not 
work  shall  not  eat." 

"Have  I  got  to  work  very  hard?"  asked  Sam, 
anxiously. 

"  I  will  not  task  you  bej^ond  your  strength,  but  I 
shall  expect  you  to  work  faithfulty.  I  work  myself. 
Everybody  v/orks  in  my  house." 

Sam  was  occupied  for  a  brief  space  in  considering 
the  great  problem  that  connects  labor  and  eating. 
Somehow  it  didn't  seem  quite  satisfactory. 

*'  I  wish  I  was  a  pig !  "  he  burst  out,  rather  unex- 
pectedly. 

"  Why  ?  "   demanded  the  deacon,  amazed. 

"  Pigs  have  a  better  time  than  men  and  hoys. 
They  have  all  they  can  eat,  and  don't  have  to  work 
for  it  nuther," 

"  I'm  surprised  at  you,"  said  the  deacon,  shocked. 
"  Pigs  are  onty  brute  animals.  The}^  have  no  soulrs. 
Would  you  be  willing  to  give  up  jovly  immortal  soul 
for  the  sake  of  bein'  idle,  and  doin'  no  work?  " 


ADRIFT  IJSr  THE   STREETS,  23 

"I  don't  know  anj^tMng  'bout  my  inunortal  soul. 
What  good  does  it  do  me?"  inquired  Sam. 

"I  declare!  the  boy's  actilly  gropin'  in  heathen 
darkness,"  said  the  deacon,  beginning  to  think  he  had 
undertaken  a  tough  job. 

"What's  that?"  asked  Sam,  mystified. 

"  I  haven't  time  to  tell  jou  now,  but  I  must  have  a 
long  talk  with  you  some  day.  You  aint  had  no  sort 
of  bringing  up.     Do  you  ever  read  the  Bible?  " 

''  No,  but  I've  read  the  life  of  Cap'n  Kidd.  He 
was  a  smart  man,  though." 

"Captain  Kidd,  the  pirate?"  asked  the  deacon, 
horrified. 

"  Yes.     Wa'n't  he  a  great  man  ?  " 

"He  calls  a  pirate  a  great  man!"  groaned  the 
deacon. 

"  I  think  I'd  like  to  be  a  pirate,"  said  Sam,  admir- 
ingly. 

"Then  you'd  die  on  the  gallus ! "  exclaimed  the 
deacon  with  energy. 

"  No,  I  wouldn't.  I  wouldn't  let  'em  catch  me," 
said  Sam,  confidently. 


24  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

"  I  never  beer d  a  boy  talli  so,"  said  the  deacon. 
''  He's  as  bad  as  a  —  a  Hottentot." 

Deacon  Hopkins  bad  no  very  clear  ideas  as  to  tbe 
moral  or  pbj'sical  condition  of  Hottentots,  or  where 
they  lived,  but  had  a  general  notion  that  they  were 
in  a  benighted  state,  and  the  com^Darison  seemed  to 
him  a  good  one.     Not  so  to  Sam. 

"  You're  calling  me  names,"  he  said,  discontent 
edly.     ' '  You  called  me  a  Hottentot." 

"I  fear  you  are  very  much  like  those  poor,  be- 
nighted creatures,  Samuel,"  said  his  new  guardian ; 
*'but  it  isn't  wholly  your  fault.  You  have  never 
had  any  religious  or  moral  instruction.  This  must  be 
rectified.     I  shall  buy  you  a  catechism  this  very  day." 

"  Will  you?"  asked  Sam,  eagerly,  who,  it  must  be 
explained,  had  an  idea  that  a  catechism  was  some- 
thing good  to  eat. 

"  Yes,  I'll  stop  at  the  store  and  get  one." 

They  went  into  Pendleton's  store,  —  a  genera] 
country  variety  store,  in  which  the  most  dissimilar 
articles  were  kept  for  sale. 

*' Have  you  got  a  catechism?"  asked  the  deacon, 
entering  with  Sam  at  his  side. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  25 

*'  "We've  got  just  one  left." 

"  How  much  is  it?  " 

*' Ten  cents." 

"  rU  take  it." 

Sam  looked  on  with  interest  till  the  clerk  i)roduced 
the  article  ;  then  his  countenance  underwent  a  change. 

"  Why,  it's  a  book,"  he  said. 

"  Of  course  it  is.  It  is  a  very  good  book,  from 
which  you  will  learn  all  about  your  duty,  and  your 
religious  obligations." 

''  You  needn't  buy  it.     I  don't  want  it,"  said  Sam. 

*'  Don't  want  the  catechism !  "  said  the  deacon,  not 
without  anger. 

"  No,  it  aint  any  good." 

''  My  boy,  I  know  better  what  is  good  for  jou.  than 
you  do.     I  shall  bu}^  you  the  catechism." 

"I'd  rather  you'd  get  me  that  book,"  said  Sam, 
pointing  to  a  thin  pamphlet  copy  of  ' '  Jack,  the  Giant- 
Killer." 

But  Deacon  Hopkins  persisted  in  making  the  pur- 
chase proposed. 

"  Are  there  any  pictures  in  it?"  asked  Sam. 

"  No." 


26  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

"Then  I  shan't  like  it." 

' '  You  don't  know  what  is  for  your  good.  I  hope  you 
will  be  wiser  in  time.  But  here  we  are  at  the  house. 
Come  right  in,  and  mind  you  wipe  your  feet." 

This  was  Sam's  first  introduction  into  the  Hopkins' 
household.  He  proved  a  disturbing  element,  as  we 
shall  presently  see. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  27 


CHAPTEE  III. 


A   HAED    CASE. 


The  first  meal  to  wMch.  Sam  sat  down  at  tlie 
deacon's  house  was  supper.  It  was  only  a  plain  sup- 
per, —  tea,  bread  and  butter,  and  apple-pie ;  but  to 
Sam,  wbo  was  not  used  to  regular  meals  of  any  kind, 
it  seemed  luxurious.  He  despatched  slice  after 
slice  of  bread,  eating  twice  as  much  as  any  one  else 
at  the  table,  and  after  eating  his  share  of  the  pie 
gazed  hungrily  at  the  single  slice  which  remained 
on  the  plate,  and  asked  for  that  also. 

Deacon  Hopkins  thought  it  was  time  to  inter- 
fere. 

"  You've  had  one  piece  a'ready,"  he  said. 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Sam ;  "  but  I'm  hungry." 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  be.  You've  eat  more 
than  any  of  us." 

''  It  takes  a  good  deal  to  fill  me  up,"  said  Sam, 
frankly. 


28  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OS, 

"  The  boy'U  eat  us  out  of  house  and  home,"  said 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  in  alarm.  "  You  can't  have  any  more. 
You've  had  enough." 

Sam  withdrew  his  plate.  He  did  not  look 
abashed,  for  he  was  never  much  inclined  that  way, 
nor  did  his  feelings  appear  to  be  hurt,  for  he  was  not 
sensitive  ;  but  he  took  the  matter  coolly,  and  pushing 
back  his  chair  from  the  table  was  about  to  leave  the 
room. 

''Where  are  you  a-goin'  ?"  asked  his  new 
guardian. 

"  Out  doors." 

"  Stop.     I've  got  something  for  you  to  do." 
The  deacon  went  to  the  mantel-piece  and   took 
therefrom  the  catechism. 

"  You  aint  had  no  bringin'  up,  Samuel,"  he  said. 
"  You  don't  know  nothin'  about  your  moral  and 
religious  obligations.  It's  my  dooty  to  make  j'ou 
learn  how  to  walli  uprightly." 

"  I  can  walk  straight  now,"  said  Sam. 
"I  don't  mean  that  —  I  mean   in  a  moral  sense. 
Come  here." 

Sam  unwillingly  drew  near  the  deacon. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  29 

''Hero,  I  want  you  to  study  the  first  page  of  the 
catechism,  and  recite  it  to  me  before  you  go  to 
bed." 

Sam  took  the  book,  and  looked  at  the  first  page 
doubtfull3\ 

"What's  the  good  of  it?"  he  demanded,  in  a 
discontented  voice. 

"What's  the  good  of' the  catechism?"  exclaimed 
the  deacon,  shocked.  "It'll  Tarn  you  your  duties. 
It'll  benefit  yom-  immortal  soul." 

"  I  don't  care  if  it  will,"  said  Sam,  perversely. 
"  What  do  I  care  about  my  soul?  It  never  did  me 
no  good." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  heathen,  Martha?" 
said  the  deacon,  in  despair,  turning  to  his  wife. 

"  You'll  be  sorry  you  ever  took  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Hopkins,  shaking  her  head. 

"Set  down  in  the  corner,  and  I'arn  your  lesson, 
Samuel,"  said  the  old  man. 

Sam  looked  undecided  whether  to  obey  or  not,  but 
under  the  circumstances  he  thought  it  best  to  obey. 
He  began  to  read  the  catechism,  but  it  did  nos 
interest  him.     His  eyes  were  not  long  fixed  on  the 


80  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    Oli, 

printed  page.  They  roved  about  the  room,  following 
the  movements  of  Mrs.  Hopkins  as  she  cleared  off 
the  table.  He  saw  her  take  the  pie,  and  place  it  in 
the  closet.  His  eyes  glistened  as  he  caught  sight  of 
an  entire  pie  on  the  lower  shelf,  designed,  doubtless, 
for  to-morrow's  supper. 

"I  wish  I  had  it,"  he  thought  to  himseif. 
*' Wouldn't  it  be  jolly?" 

Prett}"  soon  the  deacon  took  his  hat  and  cane  and 
went  out.  Then  Mrs.  Hopkins  went  into  the  next 
room,  and  Sam  was  left  alone.  There  was  a  fine 
chance  to  escape,  and  Sam  was  not  slow  in  availing 
himself  of  it.  He  dropped  the  catechism  on  the 
floor,  seized  his  hat,  and  darted  out  of  the  room, 
finding  his  way  out  of  the  house  through  the  front 
door.  He  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief,  as  he  found  him- 
self in  the  open  air.  Catching  sight  of  the  deacon 
in  a  field  to  the  right,  he  jumped  over  a  stone  wall  to 
the  left,  and  made  for  a  piece  of  woods  a  short 
distance  awa3^ 

It  was  not  Sam's  intention  to  run  away.  He  felt 
that  it  would  be  foolish  to  leave  a  home  where  he  got 
such  good  suppers,  but  he  wanted  a  couple  of  hours 


ADRIFT  IN   THE   STREETS,  31 

of  freedom.     He  did  not  mean  to  return  till  it  was  too 
late  to  study  the  catechism  any  longer. 

"  What's  the  use  of  wearin'  out  a  feller's  eyes  over 
such  stuff?  "  he  thought. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  follow  Sam's  movements 
through  the  evening.  At  nine  o'clock  he  opened  the 
front  door,  and  went  in,  not  exactly  abashed,  but  un- 
certain how  the  deacon  would  receive  him. 

Deacon  Hopldns  had  his  steel-bowed  spectacles  on, 
and  was  engaged  in  reading  a  good  book.  He  looked 
up  sternly  as  Sam  entered. 

"  Samuel,  where  have  you  been?"  he  asked. 

''  Out  in  the  woods,"  said  Sam,  coolly. 

*' Didn't  I  tell  you  to  get  your  catechism?"  de- 
manded the  old  man,  sternly. 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Sam,  without  blushing. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  telling  a  lie.  Mrs.  Hopkins 
said  she  went  out  of  the  room  a  minute,  and  wheo 
she  came  back  you  were  gone.     Is  that  so?" 

"  Yes,  T  guess  so,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  how  did  you  have  time  to  I'arn  your  les 
son?" 

"  It  wasn't  long,"  muttered  Sam. 


32  THE    TOUXG    outlaw;    OB, 

''  Come  liere,  and  I  \nll  see  if  you  laiow  ami:liing 
about  it." 

The  deacou  took  tlie  book,  laid  it  flat  ou  bis  bip, 
and  read  out  the  first  question,  looking  inquii'inglv  at 
Sam  for  the  answer. 

Sam  hesitated,  and  scratched  his  head.  ''I  give 
it  up,"  said  he. 

"Do  you  think  I  am  askin'  conundi'ums ? "  said  the 
deacon,  sternly. 

"Xo,"  said  Sam,  honestly. 

"  Why  don't  you  know? " 

*' Because  I  can't  tell." 

*'  Because  you  didn't  study  it.  Aint  3'ou  ashamed 
of  your  ignorance  ?  " 

' '  TThaf  s  the  use  of  knowin'  ?  " 

"It  is  veri/  important,"  said  the  deacon,  impres- 
sively.    "  Xow  I  will  ask  you  the  next  question." 

Sam  broke  down,  and  confessed  that  he  didn't  know. 

"Then  you  told  me  a  lie.  You  said  you  studied 
the  lesson." 

"I  didn't  understand  it." 

"Then  you  should  have  studied  longer.  Don't 
you  know  it  is  wicked  to  lie  ?  " 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  83 

"A  feller  can't   tell  the  truth  all  the  time,"  said 
Sam,  as  if  he  were  stating  a  well-known  fact. 

'' Certainly  he  can,"  said  the  deacon.  "I  always 
do." 

"Do  you?"  inquired  Sam,  regarding  the  old  man 
with  curiosity. 

"Of  course.  It  is  every  one's  duty  to  tell  the 
truth.  You  ought  to  die  rather  than  tell  a  lie.  I 
have  read  of  a  man  y/ho  was  threatened  with  death. 
He  might  have  got  off  if  he  had  told  a  lie.  But  he 
wouldn't." 

"  Did  he  get  killed?"  asked  Sam,  with  interest. 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  he  must  have  been  a  great  fool,"  said  Sam, 
contemptuously.  "  You  wouldn't  catch  me  makin' 
such  a  fool  of  myself." 

"He  was  a  noble  man,"  said  the  deacon,  indig- 
nantly.    "  He  laid  down  his  life  for  the  truth.'* 

"  What  good  did  it  do  ?  "  said  Sam. 

"  I  am  afraid,  Samuel,  j^ou  are  in  a  very  benighted 
condition.  You  appear  to  have  no  conceptions  of 
duty." 


34  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OP., 

*'I  guess  I  haven't,"  said  Sam.  "I  dunno  what 
they  are." 

"  It  is  all  the  more  necessary  that  you  should  study 
your  catechism.  I  shall  expect  you  to  get  the  same 
lesson  to-morrow  evenin'.  It's  too  late  to  study 
now." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Sam,  with  alacrity. 

"I  will  show  you  where  you  are  to  sleep.  You 
must  get  up  airly  to  go  to  work.  I  will  come  and 
wake  you  up." 

Sam  was  not  overjoyed  at  tMs  announcement.  It 
did  not  strike  him  that  he  should  enjoy  going  to  work 
early  in  the  morning.  However,  he  felt  instinctively 
that  it  would  do  no  good  to  argue  the  matter  at  pres- 
ent, and  he  followed  the  deacon  upstairs  in  silence. 
He  was  ushered  into  a  small  room  partitioned  off 
from  the  attic. 

"You'll  sleep  there,"  said  the  deacon,  pointing  to 
a  cot-bed  in  the  corner.  "  I'll  call  you  at  five  o'clock 
to-morrow  mornin'." 

Sam  undressed  himself,  and  got  into  bed. 

"  This  is  jolly,"  thought  he  ;  "a  good  deal  better 
than  at  home.     If  it  warn't  for  that  plague}^  cate- 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  35 

cMsm,  I'd  like  livin'  here  fust-rate.  I  wish  I  had 
another  piece  of  that  pie." 

In  ten  minutes  Sam  was  fast  asleep  ;  but  the  dea- 
con was  not  so  fortunate.  He  lay  awake  a  long 
tmie,  wondering  in  perplexity  what  he  should  do 
to  reform  the  young  outlaw  of  whom  he  had  taken 
charge. 

*'He's  a  cur' us  boy,"  thought  the  good  man. 
*'  Seems  to  have  no  more  notion  of  religion  than  a 
Choctaw  or  a  Hottentot.  An'  yet  he's  been  livin'  in 
a  Christian  community  all  his  life.  I'm  afeared  he 
takes  after  his  father." 


56  THE   TOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 


CHAPTER  IV. 

SAM     FRIGHTENS      THE     HOUSEHOLD. 

Sam  usually  slept  the  whole  night  through ;  but  to- 
night was  an  exception.  It  might  have  been  because 
HQ  was  in  a  strange  bed,  and  in  a  strange  house.  At 
any  rate,  he  woke  in  time  to  hear  the  clock  on  the 
church,  of  which  his  guardian  was  deacon,  strike  two. 

"  Where  am  I?  "  was  his  first  thought. 

He  remembered  almost  immediately,  and  the 
thought  made  him  broad  awake.  He  ought  not  to 
have  been  hungry  at  that  hour,  and  in  fact  he  was 
not,  but  the  thought  of  the  pie  forced  itself  upon  his 
mind,  and  he  felt  a  longing  for  the  slice  that  was 
left  over  from  supper.  Quick  upon  this  thought  came 
another,  "  Why  couldn't  he  creep  downstau-s  softl}", 
and  get  it  ?  The  deacon  and  his  wife  were  fast  asleep, 
Who  would  find  him  out  ?  " 

A  boy  better  brought  up  than  Sam  might  have  re- 
flected that  it  was  wrong ;  but,  as  the  deacon  said, 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  37 

Sam  had  no  "conceptions  of  duty,"  or,  more  jjrop- 
erlj,  his  conscience  was  not  very  active.  He  got  out 
of  bed,  slipped  on  his  stocMngs,  and  crept  softly 
downstairs,  feeling  his  way.  It  was  very  dark,  for 
the  entries  were  unlighted,  but  finally  he  reached  the 
kitchen  without  creating  any  alarm. 

Now  for  the  closet.  It  was  not  locked,  and  Sam 
opened  the  door  without  difficulty. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  match,  so's  to  see  where  the  pie 
is,"  he  thought. 

He  felt  around,  but  the  pie  must  have  been  placed 
elsewhere,  for  he  could  not  fird  it.  It  had  really 
been  placed  on  the  highest  shelf,  which  Sam  had  not 
as  yet  explored.  But  there  are  dangers  in  feeling 
around  in  the  dark.  Our  hero  managed  to  dislodge 
a  pile  of  plates,  which  fell  with  a  crash  upon  his  feet. 
There  was  a  loud  crash  of  broken  crockery,  and  the 
noise  was  increased  by  the  howls  of  Sam,  who  danced 
up  and  down  with  pain. 

The  noise  reached  the  chamber  where  the  deacon 
and  his  wife  were  calmly  reposing.  Mrs.  Hopkins 
was  a  light  sleeper,  and  was  awakened  at  once. 


38  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OH, 

She  was  startled  and  terrified,  and,  sitting  up  in 
bed,  shook  her  husband  violently  by  the  shoulder. 

*'  Deacon  —  Deacon  Hopkins  !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  deacon,  drow- 
sily. 

"  Matter  enough.     There's  robbers  downstairs." 

Now  the  deacon  was  broad  awake. 

''  Eobbers  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Pooh !  Nonsense ! 
Tou're  dreamin',  wife." 

Just  then  there  was  another  racket.  Sam,  in  try- 
ing  to  effect  his  escape,  tumbled  over  a  chair,  and 
there  was  a  yell  of  pain. 

"Am  I  dreaming  now,  deacon?"  demanded  his 
wife,  triumphantly. 

"You're  right,  wife,"  said  the  deacon,  turning 
pale,  and  trembling.  "It's  an  awful  situation. 
What  shall  we  do  ?  " 

"  Do?  Go  downstairs,  and  confront  the  villains !" 
returned  his  wife,  energetically. 

"  They  might  shoot  me,"  said  her  husband,  panic- 
stricken.  "They're  —  they're  said  to  be  very  des- 
perate fellows." 

"Are  you  a  man,  and  won't  defend  your  prop- 


ADRIFT  IK  THE   STREETS.  39 

erty?"  exclaimed  Ms  wife,  taunting  him.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  go  down  ?  " 

"Perhaps  you'd  better,"  said  the  deacon,  accepting 
the  suggestion  with  alacrity. 

"What!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Hopkins.  "You  are 
willing  they  should  shoot  me  ?  " 

"  They  wouldn't  shoot  a  woman,"  said  the  deacon. 

But  his  wife  was  not  appeased. 

Just  then  the  unlucky  Sam  trod  on  the  tail  of  the 
cat,  who  was  quietlj^  asleep  on  the  hearth.  "With  the 
instinct  of  self-defence,  she  scratched  his  leg,  which 
was  undefended  by  the  customary  clothing,  and  our 
hero,  who  did  not  feel  at  all  heroic  in  the  dark,  not 
knowing  what  had  got  hold  of  him,  roared  with  pain 
and  fright. 

"This  is  terrible!"  gasped  the  deacon.  "Mar- 
tha, is  the  door  locked  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Then  I'll  get  up  and  lock  it.  O  Lord,  what  will 
become  of  us  ?  " 

Sam  was  now  ascending  the  sta^irs,  and,  though  he 
tried  to  walk  softly,  the  stairs  creaked  beneath  his 
weight. 


40  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR^ 

"  Tlie^-'re  comin'  upstaii's,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins. "  Lock  the  door  quick,  deacon,  or  we  shall  be 
mm'dered  in  our  bed." 

The  deacon  reached  the  door  in  less  time  than  he 
would  have  accomplished  the  same  feat  in  the  day- 
time, and  hurriedly  locked  it. 

"It's  locked,  Martha,"  he  said,  "but  they  may 
break  it  down." 

' '  Or  fire  through  the  door  —  " 

"Let's  hide  under  the  bed,"  suggested  the  heroic 
deacon. 

"  Don't  speak  so  loud.  They'll  hear.  I  wish  it 
was  mornin'. " 

The  deacon  stood  at  the  door  listening,  and  made  a 
discovery. 

"They're  goin'  up  into  the  garret,"  he  announced. 
"That's  sti-ange  — " 

"What  do  they  want  up  there,  I  wonder?" 

"  They  can't  think  we've  got  anything  valuable  up 
there." 

"  Deacon,"  burst  out  Mrs.  Hopkins,  with  a  sudden 
idea,  "  I  believe  we've  been  fooled." 

"  Fooled !     What  do  3^ou  mean?" 


ADRIFT  IN   THE   STREETS.  41 

*•  I  believe  it  isn't  robbers." 

"Not  robbers?  Why,  you  told  me  it  was,"  said 
her  husband,  bewildered. 

'-^  I  believe  ifs  that  hoy" 

"What,  — Sam?" 

"Yes." 

"What  would  he  want  downstairs?" 

"  I  don't  know,  but  it's  him,  I'll  be  bound.  Light 
the  lamp,  deacon,  and  go  up  and  see." 

"But  it  might  be  robbers,"  objected  the  deacon, 
in  alarm.  "They  might  get  hold  of  me,  and  kill 
me." 

"I  didn't  think  yon  were  such  a  coward,  Mr, 
Hopkins,"  said  his  wife,  contemptuously.  When  she 
indulged  in  severe  sarcasm,  she  was  accustomed  to 
omit  her  husband's  title. 

"I  aint  a  coward,  but  I  don't  want  to  risk  my 
life.  It's  a  clear  fl^in'  in  the  face  of  Providence. 
You'd  ought  to  see  that  it  is,  Martha,"  said  the 
deacon,   reproachfully. 

"I  don't  see  it.  I  see  that  you  are  frightened, 
that's  what  I  see.  Light  the  lamp,  and  I'll  go  up 
myself." 


42  THE    YOUKG    OUTLAW;    OE, 

"  Well,  Martha,  it's  better  for  you  to  go.  They 
won't  touch  a  woman." 

He  lighted  the  lamp,  and  his  wife  departed  on 
her  errand.  It  might  have  been  an  unconscious 
action  on  the  part  of  the  deacon,  but  he  locked  the 
door  after  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  proceeded  to  the  door  of  Sam's 
bed-chamber,  and,  as  the  door  was  unfastened,  she 
entered.  Of  course  he  was  still  awake,  but  he 
pretended  to  be  asleep. 

"  Sam,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

There  was  a  counterfeited  snore. 

"Sam— say!" 

Sam  took  no  notice.  " 

The  lad}^  took  him  by  the  shoulder,  and  shook  him 
with  no  gentle  hand,  so  that  our  hero  was  compelled 
to  rouse  himself. 

*' What's  up?"  he  asked,  rubbing  his  e^^es  in 
apparent   surprise. 

"I  am,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  shortly",  "  and  3'ou 
have  been." 

"I!"  protested  Sam,  innocently.     " '^VTiy,  I  was 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  43 

sound  asleep  when  you  came  in.  I  don't  know 
what's  been  goin*  on.     Is  it  time  to  get  up?" 

"What  have  you  been  doing  downstairs?"  de- 
manded Mrs.  Hopkins,  sternly. 

"  Who  says  I've  been  downstairs?  "  asked  Sam. 

"  I'm  sure  you  have.     I  heard  you." 

"  It  must  have  been  somebody  else." 

"There  is  no  one  else  to  go  down.  Neither  the 
deacon  nor  myself  has  been  down." 

"  Likely  it's  thieves." 

But  Mrs.  Hopkins  felt  convinced,  from  Sam's  man- 
ner, that  he  was  the  offender,  and  she  determined  to 
make  him  confess  it. 

"  G-et  up,"  she  said,  "  and  go  down  with  me." 

"  I'm  sleepy,"  objected  Sam. 

"So  am  I,  but  I  mean  to  find  ojit  all  about  this 
matter." 

Sam  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  unwillingly  accom- 
panied Mrs.  Hopkins  downstairs.  The  latter  stopped 
at  her  own  chamber-door,  and  tried  to  open  it. 

"Who's  there?"  asked  the  deacon,  tremulously. 

"I  am,"  said  his  wife,  emphatically. 

"So  you  locked  the  door  on  your  wife,  did  you, 


44  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;   OJJ, 

because  you  thought  there  was  danger.     It  does  you 
great  credit,  upon  my  word." 

"What  have  you  found  out?"  asked  her  husband, 
evading  the  reproach.  "Was  it  Sam  that  made  all 
the  noise  ?  " 

"How  could  I,"  said  Sam,  ^'when  I  was  fast 
asleep  ?  " 

"I'm  goin'  to  take  him  down  with  me  to  see  what 
mischiefs  done,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins.  "  Do  you  want 
to  go  too  ?  " 

The  deacon,  after  a  little  hesitation,  followed  his  more 
courageous  spouse,  —  at  a  safe  distance,  however,  — 
and  the  three  entered  the  kitchen,  which  had  been  the 
scene  of  Sam's  noisy  exploits.  It  showed  traces  of 
his  presence  in  an  overturned  chair.  Moreover,  the 
closet-door  was  wide  open,  and  broken  pieces  of 
crockery  were  scattered  over  the  floor. 

A  light  dawned  upon  Mrs.  Hopkins.  She  had 
solved  the  mystery  I 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS .  45 


CHAPTER  V. 

SAM   <:;OMBINES    BUSINESS    WITH    PLEASURE. 

"  You  came  down  after  that  pie,"  she  said,  turning 
upon  Sam. 

"  WTiat  pie?"  asked  Sam,  looking  guilty,  however. 

''Don't  ask  me.  You  know  well  enough.  You 
couldn't  find  it  in  the  dark,  and  that's  the  way  you 
came  to  make  such  a  noise.  Ten  of  my  nice  plates 
broken,  too  !  What  do  you  say  to  that.  Deacon  Hop- 
kins?" 

"Samuel,"  said  the  deacon,  "did  3^ou  do  this 
wicked  thing  ?  " 

A  moment's  reflection  convinced  Sam  that  it  would 
be  idle  to  deny  it  longer.  The  proofs  of  his  guilt 
were  too  strong.  He  might  have  plead  in  his  defence 
"emotional  insanit}',"  but  he  was  not  familiar  with 
the  course  of  justice  in  New  York.  He  was,  however, 
fertile  in  expedients,  and  thought  of  the  next  best  thing. 

"  Mebbe  I  wallied  in  my  sleep,"  he  admitted. 


46  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW',    OB, 

*'Did  you  ever  walk  in  your  sleep?"  asked  the 
deacon,  hastily. 

"  Lots  of  times,"  said  Sam. 

"  It  is  rather  strange  you  should  go  to  the  closet  m 
your  sleep,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  suspiciously.  "I 
suppose,  if  you'd  found  it,  you'd  have  eaten  it  in  your 
sleep." 

"Likely  I  should,"  said  Sam.  "I  was  dreamin' 
of  the  pie.  You  know  how  to  make  pie,  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins ;  I  never  tasted  so  good  before." 

Mrs.  Hopkins  was  not  a  soft  woman,  but  she  was 
proud  of  her  cooking,  and  accessible  to  flatter}^  on 
that  subject.  Sam  could  not  have  defended  himself 
better. 

"That  may  be,"  she  said,  "about  3'our  walking  in 
your  sleep  ;  but  once  is  enough.  Hereafter  I'll  lock 
your  door  on  the  outside.  I  can't  be  waked  up  every 
night,  nor  I  can't  have  my  plates  broken." 

"  S'pose  the  house  should  catch  fire,"  suggested 
Sam,  who  didn't  fancy  being  locked  up  in  his  room. 

"If  it  does,  I'll  come  and  let  jou  out.  The  house 
is  safer  when  j^ou're  safe  in  bed." 

"My  wife  is   right,    Samuel,"   said  the    deacon, 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  47 

recovering  bis  dignity  now  that  Ms  fears  were  re- 
moved.    "  You  must  be  locked  in  after  to-nigbt." 

Sam  did  not  reply.  On  tbe  wbole,  be  felt  glad  to 
get  off  so  well,  after  alarming  tbe  bouse  so  seri- 
ously. 

"Do  you  mean  to  stay  downstairs  all  nigbt,  Dea- 
con Hopkins  ?  "  demanded  bis  wife,  witb  uncalled-for 
asperity.     "  If  so,  I  sball  leave  you  to  yourself." 

"  I'm  ready  to  go  up  wben  you  are,"  said  ber  bus- 
band.  "I  tbougbt  you  mightn't  feel  like  stajdn'  down 
bere  alone." 

"  Mucb  protection  you'd  be  in  time  of  danger,  Mr. 
Hopkins, — you  tbat  locked  tbe  door  on  your  wife, 
because  you  was  afraid  !  " 

"  I  wasn't  tbinldn',"  stammered  tbe  deacon. 

"Probably  not,'*  said  bis  wife,  in  an  incredulous 
tone.  "Now  go  up.  It's  bigb  time  we  were  all  in 
bed  again." 

Sam  was  not  called  at  as  early  an  bour  as  tbe 
deacon  intended.  Tbe  worthy  man,  in  consequence 
of  bis  slumbers  being  interrupted,  overslept  himself, 
and  it  was  seven  o'clock  wben  be  called  Sam. 

"Get  up,  Samuel,"  he  said;  "it's  dreadful  late, 


48  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OB, 

and  you  must  be  spry,  or  you  won't  catch  up  with  the 
work." 

Work,  however,  was  not  prominent  in  Sam's  mind, 
as  his  answer  showed. 

"Is  breakfast  ready?"  he  asked,  rubbing  his 
eyes. 

"  It's  most  ready.  Get  right  up,  for  it's  time  to 
go  to  work." 

*'  I  'spose  we'll  have  breakfast  first,"  said  Sam. 

"If  it's  ready." 

Under  these  circumstances,  Sam  did  not  hui'ry. 
He  did  not  care  to  work  before  breakfast,  nor,  for 
that  matter,  afterwards,  if  he  could  help  it.  So  he 
made  a  leisurely,  though  not  an  elaborate  toilet,  and 
did  not  come  down  till  Mrs.  Hopkins  called  sharply 
up  the  attic  stairs,  "  Come  down,  j'ou  Sam  !  " 

"All  right,  ma'am,  I'm  comin',"  said  Sam,  who 
judged  rightl}^  that  brealdast  was  read3\ 

"  We  shan't  often  let  you  sleep  so  late,"  said  Mrs. 
Hopkins,  who  sat  behind  the  waiter.  "We  were 
broken  of  our  rest  through  3'our  cutting  up  last  night, 
and  so  we  overslept  ourselves." 

"  Ifs  pretty  early,"  said  Sam. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  49 

"  We'd  ought  to  have  been  at  work  in  the  field  an 
Lour  ago,"  said  the  deacon. 

At  the  table  Sam  found  work  that  suited  him 
better. 

"  You've  got  a  good  appetite,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins, 
as  Sam  took  the  seventh  slice  of  bread. 

"I  most  generally  have,"  said  Sam,  with  his 
mouth  full. 

"  That's  encouraging,  I'm  sm^e,"  said  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins, drily. 

There  was  no  pie  on  the  table,  as  Sam  noticed,  to 
his  regret.  However,  he  was  pretty  full  when  he 
rose  from  the  table. 

"Now,  Samuel,  j^ou  may  come  along  with  me," 
said  the  deacon,  putting  on  his  hat. 

Sam  followed  him  out  to  the  barn,  where,  in  one 
corner,  were  kept  the  hoes,  rakes,  and  other  farming 
implements  in  use. 

''  Here's  a  hoe  for  3^ou,"  said  the  deacon. 

"  VtHiat  are  we  going  to  do? "  asked  Sam. 

"The  potatoes  need  hoeing.  Did  you  ever  hoo 
potatoes  ? " 

"  No." 


50  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

• '  You'll  Tarn.     It  aint  hard." 

The  field  was  some  little  distance  from  the  haise, 
—  a  two-acre  lot  wholly  devoted  to  potatoes. 

*'I  guess  we'll  begin  at  the  further  corner,"  said 
the  deacon.     "  Come  along." 

When  they  had  reached  the  part  of  the  field  speci- 
fied, the  deacon  stopped. 

"Now,"  said  he,  "just  see  how  I  do  it;"  and  he 
carefully  hoed  around  one  of  the  hills. 

"  There,  j'ou  see  it's  easy." 

"I  guess  I  can  do  it.  Are  you  goin'  to  stay 
here?" 

"No,  I've  got  to  go  to  the  village,  to  the  hlack- 
smith's.  I'll  be  back  in  about  two  hom-s.  Jest  hoe 
right  along  that  row,  and  then  come  back  again 
on  the  next.     Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"  I  want  you  to  work  as  spry  as  you  can,  so's  to 
make  up  for  lost  time.'* 

"  What  time  do  j'ou  have  dinner?  "  asked  our  hero. 

"  You  aint  hungiy  so  quick,  be  you?" 

"  No,  but  I  shall  be  bimeby.  I  thought  I'd  like  to 
know  when  to  quit  work,  and  go  to  dinner." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  51 

"  I'll  be  back  before  that.  You  needn't  worry 
about  that." 

The  deacon  turned,  and  dkected  his  steps  home- 
ward. 

As  long  as  he  was  in  sight  Sam  worked  with 
tolerable  speed.  But  when  the  tall  and  stooping 
figure  had  disappeared  from  view  he  rested,  and 
looked  around  him. 

"It'll  be  a  sight  of  work  to  hoe  all  them 
potatoes,"  he  said  to  himself.  *'  I  wonder  if  the  old 
man  expects  me  to  do  the  whole.  It'll  be  a  tough 
job." 

Sam  leisurely  hoed  another  hill. 

''It's  gettin'  hot,"  he  said.  "Why  don't  they 
have  trees  to  give  shade?  Then  it  would  be  more 
comfortable." 

He  hoed  another  hill,  taking  a  little  longer  time. 

"  I  guess  there  must  be  a  million  hills,"  he  re- 
flected, looking  around  him  thoughtfully.  "It'll 
take  me  from  now  till  next  winter  to  hoe  'em  all." 

At  the  rate  Sam  was  working,  his  calculation  of 
the  time  it  would  take  him  was  not  far  out 
probably. 


52  THE  YOUNG  outlaw;  on, 

He  finished  another  hilL 

Just  then  a  cat,  out  on  a  morning  walk,  cbancied  to 
pass  through  the  field  a  few  rods  away.  Now  Sam 
could  never  see  a  cat  without  wanting  to  chase  it,  — 
a  fact  which  would  have  led  the  cat,  had  she  been 
aware  of  it,  to  give  him  a  wide  berth.  But,  unluck- 
ily, Sam  saw  her. 

"  Scat!"  he  exclaimed,  and,  grasping  his  hoe,  he 
ran  after  puss. 

The  cat  took  alarm,  and,  climbing  the  wall  which 
separated  the  potato-field  from  the  next,  sped  over 
it  in  terror.  Sam  followed  with  whoops  and  jells, 
which  served  to  accelerate  her  speed.  Occasional!}^ 
he  picked  up  a  stone,  and  thi-ew  at  her,  and  once  he 
threw  the  hoe  in  the  excitement  of  his  chase.  But 
four  legs  proved  more  than  a  match  for  two,  and 
finally  he  was  obliged  to  give  it  up,  but  not  till  he 
had  run  more  than  quarter  of  a  mile.  He  sat  down 
to  rest  on  a  rock,  and  soon  another  bo}^  came  up, 
with  a  fishing-pole  over  his-  shoulder. 

*'  What  are  jou  doing,  Sam?"  he  asked. 

"  IVe  been  chasin'  a  cat,"  said  Sam. 

"  Didn't  catch  her,  did  you?" 


ADRIFT  Iir  THE   STREETS.  53 

'*  No,  hang  it." 

' '  Wliere'd  you  get  that  hoe  ?  " 

''  I'm  to  work  for  Deacon  Hopkins.  He's  took 
me.     Where  are  you  goin' ?  " 

"  A-fishing." 

*'  I  msh  I  could  go." 

*'  So  do  I.     I'd  like  company." 

''  Where  are  3^ou  goin'  to  fish?  " 

* '  In  a  "brook  close  b}^,  down  at  the  bottom  of  this 
field." 

"I'll  go  and  look  on  a  minute  or  two.  I  guess 
there  isn't  any  hurry  about  them  potatoes." 

The  minute  or  two  lengthened  to  an  hour  and  a 
half,  when  Sam  roused  himself  from  his  idle  mood, 
and  shouldering  his  hoe  started  for  the  field  where  he 
had  been  set  to  work. 

It  was  full  time.  The  deacon  was  there  before 
him,  surveying  with  angry  look  the  half-dozen  hills, 
which  were  all  that  his  3'oung  assistant  had  thus  far 
hoed. 

"Now  there'll  be  a  fuss,"  thouglit  Sam,  and  he 
was  not  far  out  in  that  calculation. 


if 4  THE   TOUNG    OUTLAW;    0R% 


CHAPTER  VI. 

sam's  sudden  sickness. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  you  young  scamp?  "  de- 
manded the  deacon,  wrathfully. 

"I  just  went  away  a  minute  or  two,"  said  Sam, 
abashed. 

'*  A  minute  or  two  ! "  ejaculated  the  deacon. 

*'  It  may  have  been  more,"  said  Sam.  "  You  see 
I  aint  got  no  watch  to  tell  time  by." 

*'  How  comes  it  that  you  have  only  got  through  six 
hills  air  the  morning?  "    said  the  deacon,  sternly. 

*'  Well,  3^ou  see,  a  cat  came  along- — "  Sam  began 
to  explain. 

"What  if  she  did?"  interrupted  the  deacon. 
*'  She  didn't  stop  your  work,  did  she?  " 

''  Why,  I  thought  I'd  chase  her  out  of  the  field." 

"What  for?" 

"  I  thought  she  might  scratch  up  some  of  tlie  pota- 
toes," said  Sam,  a  brilliant  excuse  dawning  upon  him. 


ADRIFT  IJSr  THE  STREETS,  55 

*'  How  long  did  it  take  you  to  chase  her  out  of  the 
field,  where  she  wasn't  doing  any  harm?  " 

"  I  was  afraid  she'd  come  back,  so  I  chased  her  a 
good  ways." 

"  Did  you  catch  her?  " 

"No,  but  I  drove  her  away.  I  guess  she  won't 
come  round  here  again,"  said  Sam,  in  the  tone  of 
one  who  had  performed  a  virtuous  action. 

"  Did  you  come  right  back?  " 

"  I  sat  down  to  rest.  You  see  I  was  pretty  tired 
with  running  so  fast." 

"  If  you  didn't  run  any  faster  than  you  have 
worked,  a  snail  would  catch  you  in  half  a  minute," 
said  the  old  man,  with  justifiable  sarcasm.  "  Samuel, 
yoiu"  excuse  is  good  for  nothing.     I  must  punish  you." 

Sam  stood  on  his  guard,  prepared  to  run  if  the 
deacon  should  make  hostile  demonstrations.  But  his 
guardian  was  not  a  man  of  violence,  and  did  not  pro- 
pose to  inflict  blows.  He  had  another  punishment  in 
view  suited  to  Sam's  particular  case. 

"I'll  go  right  to  work,"  said  Sam,  seeing  that  no 
violence  was  intended,  and  hoping  to  escape  the  pun- 
ishment threatened,  whatever  it  might  be. 


56  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

"  You'd  better,"  said  the  deacon. 

Our  hero  (I  am  afraid  he  has  not  manifested  any 
heroic  qualities  as  yet)  went  to  work  with  remarka- 
ble energy,  to  the  imminent  danger  of  the  potato- 
tops,  which  he  came  near  uprooting  in  several 
instances. 

"  Is  this  fast  enough?  "  he  asked. 

*' It'll  do.  I'll  take  the  next  row,  and  we'll  work 
along  together.  Take  care,  —  I  don't  want  the  pota- 
toes dug  up." 

They  kept  it  up  for  an  hour  or  more,  Sam  working 
more  steadily,  probabty,  than  he  had  ever  done  be- 
fore in  his  life.  He  began  to  thinlv  it  was  no  joke, 
as  he  wall^ed  from  hill  to  hill,  keeping  up  with  the 
deacon's  steady  progress. 

*' There  aint  much  fun  about  this,"  he  thought. 
"  I  don't  like  workin'  on  a  farm.  It's  awful  tire- 
some." 

"What's  the  use  of  hoein'  potatoes?"  he  asked, 
after  a  while.  "  Won't  they  gi'ow  just  as  well  with- 
out it?" 

"  No,"  said  the  deacon. 

*'  I  don't  see  why  not." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  57 

''They  need  to  have  the  earth  loosened  around 
ihem,  and  heaped  up  where  it's  fallen  away." 

"  It's  a  lot  of  trouble,"  said  Sam. 

''We  must  all  work,"  said  the  deacon,  senten- 
tiously. 

"  I  wish  potatoes  growed  on  trees  like  apples," 
said  Sam.     "  Thej^  wouldn't  be  no  trouble  then." 

"  You  mustn't  question  the  Almighty's  doin's, 
Samuel,"  said  the  deacon,  seriously.  "Whatever  he 
does  is  right." 

"  I  was  only  wonderin',  that  was  all,"  said  Sam. 

"  Human  wisdom  is  prone  to  err,"  said  the  old 
man,  indulging  in  a  scrap  of  proverbial  philosophy. 

"What  does  that  mean?"  thought  Sam,  carelessly 
hitting  the  deacon's  foot  with  his  descending  hoe. 
Unfortunately,  the  deacon  had  corns  on  that  foot, 
and  the  blow   cost  him  a  sharp  twinge. 

"  You  careless  blockhead  !  "  he  shrieked,  raising 
the  injured  foot  from  the  ground,  while  a  spasm  of 
anguish  contracted  his  features.  "  Did  you  take  my 
foot  for  a  potato-hill?" 

"  Did  I  hurt  3'ou?"  asked  Sam,  innocently. 

"You  hurt  me  like  thunder,"  gsiisped  the  deacon, 


58  THE  YouifG  outlaw;  or, 

using,  in  Ms  excitement,  words  wMch  in  calmer 
moments  he  would  have  avoided. 

"I  didn't  think  it  was  your  foot,"  said   Sam. 

''I  hope  you'll  be  more  careful  next  time ;  you 
most  killed  me." 

"I  will,"  said  Sam. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  isn't  time  for  dinner,"  he  began  to 
think  presently,  but,  under  the  circumstances,  thought 
it  best  not  to  refer  to  the  matter.  But  at  last  the 
welcome  sound  of  the  dinner-bell  was  heard,  as  it  was 
vigorously  rung  at  the  back  door  by  Mrs.  Hopldns. 

"  That's  for  dinner,  Samuel,"  said  the  deacon. 
"  We  will  go  to  the  house." 

"All  right!"  said  Sam,  with  alacrity,  throwing 
down  the  hoe  in  the  furrow. 

''  Pick  up  that  hoe,  and  carry  it  with  you,"  said 
the  deacon. 

"Then  we  won't  work  here  any  more  to-day!" 
said  Sam,  brightening  up. 

"  Yes,  we  will ;  but  it's  no  way  to  leave  the  hoe  in 
the  fields.  Some  cat  might  come  along  and  steal  it," 
he  added,  with  unwonted  sarcasm. 

Sam  laughed  as  he   thought  of  the  idea  of  a  cat 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  59 

stealing  a  hoe,  and  the  deacon  smiled  at  Ms  own 
joke. 

Dinner  was  on  the  table.  It  was  the  fashion  there 
to  put  all  on  at  once,  and  Sam,  to  his  great  satisfac- 
tion, saw  on  one  side  a  pie  like  that  which  had 
tempted  him  the  night  before.  The  deacon  saw  his 
look,  and  it  suggested  a  fitting  punishment.  But  the 
time  was  not  yet. 

Sam  did  ample  justice  to  the  first  course  of  meat 
and  potatoes.  When  that  was  despatched,  Mrs. 
Hopkins  began  to  cut  the  pie. 

The  deacon  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Samuel  is  to  have  no  pie,   Martha,"  he   said. 

His  wife  thought  it  was  for  his  misdeeds  of  the 
night  before,  and  so  did  Sam. 

"  I  couldn't  help  walkin'  in  my  sleep,"  he  said, 
with  a  blanlv  look  of  disappointment. 

"  It  aint  that,"  said  the  deacon. 

"  What  is  it,  then?"  asked  his  wife. 

"  Samuel  ran  away  from  his  work  this  mornin',  and 
was  gone  nigh  on  to  two  hours,"  said  her  hus- 
band. 

"You  are  quite  right.  Deacon  Hopkins,"  said  his 


60  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OE, 

wife,  emphatically.  "  He  don't  deserve  any  dinner  at 
all." 

"Can't  I  have  some  pie?"  asked  Sam,  wlio  could 
not  bear  to  lose  so  tempting  a  portion  of  tlie  repast. 

"No,  Samuel.  What  I  say  I  mean.  He  that  will 
not  work  shall  not  eat." 

"  I  worked  hard  enough  afterwards,"  muttered 
Sam. 

"After  I  came  back— yes,  I  know  that.  You 
worked  well  part  of  the  time,  so  I  gave  you  part  of 
your  dinner.     Next  time  let  the  cats  alone." 

"Can  I  have  some  more  meat,  then?"  asked  Sam. 

" Ye-es,"  said  the  deacon,  hesitating.  "You  need 
strength  to  work  this  afternoon." 

"  S'pose  I  get  that  catechism  this  afternoon  instead 
of  goin'  to  work,"  suggested  Sam.    . 

"That  will  do  after  supper,  Samuel.  All  things  in 
their  j)lace.  The  afternoon  is  for  work ;  the  evening 
for  readin'  and  study,  and  improvin'  the  mind." 

Sam  reflected  that  the  deacon  was  a  very  obstinate 
man,  and  decided  that  his  arrangements  were  very 
foolish.  What  was  the  use  of  living  if  joxCd  got  to 
work  all  the  time  ?    A  good  many  people,  older  than 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  61 

Sam,  are  of  the  same  opinion,  and  it  is  not  wholly 
without  reason  ;  but  then,  it  should  be  borne  in  mind 
that  Sam  was  opposed  to  all  work.  He  believed  in 
enjoying  himself,  and  the  work  might  take  care  of  it- 
self.    But  how  could  it  be  avoided  ? 

As  Sam  was  reflecting,  a  way  opened  itself.  He 
placed  his  hand  on  his  stomach,  and  began  to  roll  his 
ejies,  groaning  meanwhile. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

"I  feel  sick,"  said  Sam,  screwing  up  his  face  into 
strange  contortions. 

*'It's  very  sudden,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  suspi- 
ciously. 

"So  'tis,"  said  Sam.  "I'm  afraid  I'm  going  to  be 
very  sick.     Can  I  lay  down  ?  " 

"What  do  you  think  it  is,  Martha?"  asked  the 
deacon,  looking  disturbed. 

"I  Iniow  what  it  is,"  said  his  wife,  calmly.  "I've 
treated  such  attacks  before.  Yes,  you  may  lay  down 
in  your  room,  and  I'll  bring  you  some  tea,  as  soon  aa 
I  can  make  it." 

"All  right,"  said  Sam,  elated  at  the  success  of  his 


62  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OB, 

little  trick.  It  was  very  much  pleasanter  to  lie  down 
than  to  hoe  potatoes  on  a  hot  day. 

"How  easy  T  took  in  the  old  woman  !"  he  thought. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  changed  his  mind,  as  we 
shall  see  in  the  next  chapter. 


ADBIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  63 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SAM   MEETS   HIS    MATCH. 

Sam  went  upstairs  with  alacrity,  and  lay  down  on 
tlie  bed,  —  not  that  lie  was  particularly  tired,  but 
because  he  found  it  more  agreeable  to  lie  down  than 
to  work  in  the  field. 

*'  I  wish  I  had  something  to  read,"  he  thought, 
—  "  some  nice  dime  novel  like  '  The  Demon  of  the 
Danube.'  That  was  splendid.  I  lilie  it  a  good  deal 
better  than  Dickens.     It's  more  excitin'." 

But  there  was  no  library  in  Sam's  room,  and  it  was 
very  doubtful  whether  there  were  any  dime  novels  in 
the  house.  The  deacon  belonged  to  the  old  school 
of  moralists,  and  looked  with  suspicion  upon  all 
works  of  fiction,  with  a  very  few  exceptions,  such 
as  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  Robinson  Crusoe,  which, 
however,  he  supposed  to  be  true  stories. 

Soon  Sam  heard  the  step  of  Mrs.  Hopkins  on  the 


64  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR^ 

stall's.  He  immediately  began  to  twist  his  features 
in  sucli  a  way  as  to  express  pain. 

IMrs.  Hopkins  entered  the  room  with  a  cnp  of 
hot  liquid  in  her  hand. 

*' Plow  do  3"ou  feel?"  she  asked. 

"I  feel  bad,"  said  Sam. 

"  Are  you  in  pain?  " 

"  Yes,  I've  got  a  good  deal  of  pain." 

' '  Whereabouts  ?  " 

Sam  placed  his  hand  on  his  stomach,  and  looked 
sad. 

"Yes,  I  Iniow  exactly  what  is  the  matter  with 
you,"  said  the  deacon's  wife. 

"  Then  jom  know  a  good  deal,"  thought  Sam, 
"  for  I  don't  know  of  anything  at  all  mj^self." 

This  was  what  he  thought,  but  he  said,  "Do 
you?" 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I've  had  a  good  deal  of  experience.  I 
know  what  is  good  for  3'ou." 

Sam  looked  cmiously  at  the  cup. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"  It's  hot  tea  ;  it's  ver}"  healin*." 

Sam  supposed  it  to  be  ordinary  tea,  and  he  had 


ADRIFT  IN   THE   STREETS.  65 

no  objection  to  take  it.  But  when  he  put  it  to  his 
lips  there  was  something  about  the  odor  that  did  not 
please  him. 

''  It  doesn't  smell  good,"  he  said,  looking  up  in  the 
face  of  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

"  Medicine  generally  doesn't,"  she  said,  quietly. 

"  I  thought  it  was  tea,"  said  Sam. 

*'  So  it  is  :  it  is  wormwood- tea." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  like  it,"  hesitated  Sam. 

"No  matter  if  you  don't,  it  will  do  you  good," 
said  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

Sam  tasted  it,  and  his  face  assumed  an  expression 
of  disgust. 

"  I  can't  drink  it,"  he  said. 

"  You  must,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  firmly. 

"  I  guess  I'll  get  well  without,"  said  our  hero, 
feeling  that  he  was  in  a  scrape. 

"  No,  you  won't.  You're  quite  unwell.  I  can  see 
it  by  your  face." 

"Can  you?"  said  Sam,  beginning  to  be  alarmed 
about  his  health. 

"  You  must  take  this  tea,"  said  the  lady,  firmly. 

"  I'd  rather  not." 


66  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    Oli, 

"  That's  neither  here  nor  there.  The  deacon  needs 
you  well,  so  you  can  go  to  work,  and  this  will  cure 
3^ou  as  quick  as  anything." 

''  Suppose  it  doesn't?  "  said  Sam. 

"  Then  I   shall   bring  you  up  some  castor-oil  h 
two  hours." 

Castor-oil !  This  was  even  worse  than  wormwood  - 
tea,  and  Sam's  heart  sank  within  him. 

"  The  old  woman's  too  much  for  me,"  he  thought, 
with  a  sigh. 

"Come,  take  the  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins.  "I 
can't  wait  here  all  day." 

Thus  adjured,  Sam  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and, 
shutting  his  eyes,  gulped  down  the  wormwood.  He 
shuddered  slightly  when  it  was  all  done,  and  his  face 
was  a  stud}^ 

"Well  done!"  said  Mrs.  Hopldns.  "It's  sure  to 
do  you  good." 

"I  think  I'd  have  got  well  without."  said  Sam. 
"I'm  afraid  it  won't  agree  with  me." 

"If  it  don't,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins,  cheerfully.  '^I'll 
try  some  castor-oil." 

"I  guess  I  won't  need  it,"  said  Sam,  hastily. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  67 

"It  was  awful,"  said  Sam  to  himself,  as  his  nurse 
left  him  alone.  ' '  I'd  rather  hoe  potatoes  than  take  it 
again.  I  never  see  such  a  terrible  old  woman.  She 
would  make  me  do  it,  when  I  wasn't  no  more  sick 
than  she  is." 

Mrs.  Hopkins  smiled  to  herself  as  she  went  down- 
stairs. 

"  Served  him  right,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I'll  Tarn 
him  to  be  sick.  Guess  he  won't  trj  it  again  very 
soon." 

Two  hours  later  Mrs.  Hopkins  presented  herself  at 
Sam's  door.  He  had  been  looking  out  of  the  window  ; 
but  he  bundled  into  bed  as  soon  as  he  heard  her. 
Appearances  must  be  kept  up. 

"How  do  you  feel  now,  Sam?"  asked  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins. 

"A  good  deal  better,"  said  Sam,  surveying  in 
alarm  a  cup  of  some  awful  decoction  in  her  hand. 

"  Do  you  feel  ready  to  go  to  work  again?" 

' '  Almost,"  said  Sam,  hesitating. 

"The  wormwood- tea  did  you  good,  it  seems;  but 
you're  not  quite  well  yet." 

"  I'll  soon  be  well,"  said  Sam,  hastily. 


68  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OR^ 

"I  mean  you  sliall  be,"  said  his  visitor.  'Tve 
brought  you  some  more  medicine.'* 

"Is  it  tea?" 

"  No,  castor-oil." 

"I  don't  need  it,"  said  Sam,  getting  up  quickly. 
'<  I'm  well." 

"If  you  are  not  well  enough  to  go  to  work,  you 
must  take  some  oil." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Sam.  "I'll  go  right  out  into 
the  field." 

"  I  don't  want  jom  to  go  unless  3"0u  are  quite  re- 
covered.    I'm  sure  the  oil  will  bring  jou  'round." 

"  I'm  all  right,  now,"  said  Sam,  hastily. 

"  Very  well ;  if  you  think  so,  3'ou  can  go  to  work." 

Rather  ruefully  Sam  made  his  way  to  the  potato- 
field,  with  his  hoe  on  his  shoulder. 

"Tea  and  castor-oil  are  worse  than  work,"  he 
thought.    "  The  old  woman's  got  the  best  of  me,  after 

all.      I  wonder  whether  she  knew  I  was  makin'  be- 
lieve." 

On  this  point  Sam  could  not  make  up  his  mind. 
She  certainly  seemed  in  earnest,  and  never  expressed 
a  doubt  about  his  being  really  sick.     But   all  the 


ADRIFT  IN   THE   STREETS.  69 

same,  slie  made  sickness  very  disagreeable  to  him, 
and  lie  felt  ttiat  in  future  be  should  not  pretend  sick- 
ness when  she  was  at  home.  It  made  him  almost 
sick  to  think  of  the  bitter  tea  he  had  already  drunk, 
and  the  oil  would  have  been  even  worse. 

The  deacon  looked  up  as  he  caught  sight  of  Sam. 

"  Have  you  got  well?"  he  asked  innocentl}^,  for  he 
had  not  been  as  clear-sighted  as  his  wife  in  regard  to 
the  character  of  Sam's  malady. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  "  I'm  a  good  deal  better,  but  I 
don't  feel  quite  so  strong  as  I  did." 

"  Mebbe  it  would  be  well  for  you  to  fast  a  little,'' 
said  the  deacon,  in  all  sincerity,  for  fasting  was  one 
of  his  specifics  in  case  of  sickness. 

"No,  I  don't  think  it  would,  said  Sam,  quickly. 
"  I'll  feel  better  by  supper-time." 

"  I  hope  you  will,"  said  the  deacon. 

"  I  wish  I  had  a  piece  of  pie  or  somethin'  to  take 
the  awful  taste  out  of  my  mouth,"  thought  Sam. 
"  I  can  taste  that  wormwood  jist  as  plain  !  I  wonder 
why  such  things  arc  allowed  to  grow." 

For  the  rest  of  the  afternoon  Sam  worked  unusally 
well.    He  was  under  the  the  deacon's  eye,  and  una- 


70  TBE    YOUNG   OUTLAW \    OR, 

ble  to  get  awaj^,  though  he  tried  at  least  once.  After 
the3^  had  been  at  work  for  about  an  hour,  Sam  said 
suddenly,  "  Don't  you  feel  thirst}^,  Deacon  Hopkins  ?" 

"  What  makes  you  ask?"  said  the  deacon; 

"Because  I'd  jist  as  lieves  go  to  the  house  and 
get  some  water,"  said  Sam,  with  a  very  obliging 
air. 

"You're  very  considerate,  Samuel;  but  I  don't 
think  it's  health}^  to  di'ink  between  meals." 

"  Supposin'  you're  thirsty,"  suggested  Sam,  disap- 
pointed. 

"  It's  only  fancy.  You  don't  need  drink  railly. 
You  only  think  you  do,"  said  the  deacon,  and  he 
made  some  further  remarks  on  the  subject  to  which 
Sam  listened  discontentedly.  He  began  to  think  his 
situation  a  very  hard  one. 

"It's  work  —  work  all  the  time,"  he  said  to  him- 
self. "  What's  the  good  of  workin'  yourself  to  death? 
When  I'm  a  man  I'll  work  only  when  I  want  to." 

Sam  did  not  consider  that  there  might,  be  some 
difficulty  in  earning  a  living  unless  he  were  willing  to 
work  for  it.  The  present  discomfort  was  all  he 
thought  of. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  71 

At  last,  mucli  to  Sam's  joy,  the  deacon  gave  the 
signal  to  return  to  the  house. 

"K  you  hadn't  been  sick,  we'd  have  got  through 
more,  he  said  ;  "  but  to-morrow  we  must  make  up  for 
lost  time." 

"I  hope  it'll  rain  to-morrow,"  thought  Sam. 
' '  We  can't  work  in  the  rain." 

At  supper  the  wormwood  seemed  to  give  him 
additional   appetite. 

'  •  I'm  afraid  you'll  make  yourself  sick  again, 
Samuel,"  said  the  deacon. 

"There  aint  no  danger,"  said  Sam,  looMng 
alarmed  at  the  suggestion.  "  I  feel  all  right 
now." 

"  The  wormwood  did  you  good,"  said  Mrs.  Hop- 
kins, drily. 

**  I  wonder  if  she  means  anything,"  thought  Sam 


72  THE    YOUWG   OUTLAW \    OR^ 


CHAPTEE    VIII. 


SAM  S    TEMPTATION. 


A  MONTH  passed,  a  montli  which  it  is  safe  to  sa}' 
was  neither  satisfactory  to  Sam  for  his  emploj^er. 
The  deacon  discovered  that  the  bo}^  needed  constant 
watching.  When  he  was  left  to  himself,  he  was  sure 
to  shirk  his  work,  and  indulge  his  natural  love  of 
living  at  ease.  His  appetite  showed  no  signs  of 
decrease,  and  the  deacon  was  led  to  remark  that 
''Samuel  had  the  stiddj-est  appetite  of  any  boy  he 
ever  knew.  He  never  seemed  to  know  when  he  had 
eaten  enough." 

As  for  Mrs.  Hopkins,  Sam  failed  to  produce  a 
fovorable  impression  upon  her.  He  was  b}"  no  means 
her  ideal  of  a  bo}^,  though  it  must  be  added  that  this 
ideal  was  so  high  that  few  living  bo^^s  could  expect 
to  attain  it.  He  must  have  an  old  head  on  young 
shoulders,  and  in  fact  be  an  angel  in  all  respects 
excejpt  the  wings.     On  these  Mrs.  Hopkins  probably 


ADRIFT  m   THE   STREETS. 

would  not  insist.  Being  only  a  boj^,  and  consK'^.era- 
bly  lazier  and  more  mischievous  tlian  the  average, 
there  was  not  much  prospect  of  Sam's  satisfying  her 
requirements. 

"  You'd  better  send  him  to  the  poorliouse,  deacon/' 
she  said  more  than  once.  "  He's  the  most  shif'less 
boy  I  ever  see,  and  it's  awful  the  amount  he  eats." 

"  I  guess  I'll  tr}^  him  a  leetle  longer,*'  said  the  dea- 
con. "He  aint  had  no  sort  of  bringin'  up,  you 
know." 

So  at  the  end  of  four  weeks  Sam  still  continued  a 
member  of  the  deacon's  household. 

As  for  Sam,  things  were  not  wholly  satisfactory  to 
him.  In  spite  of  all  his  adroit  evasions  of  duty,  he 
found  himself  obliged  to  work  more  than  he  found 
agreeable.  He  didn't  see  the  fun  of  trudging  after  the 
deacon  up  and  down  the  fields  in  the  warm  summer 
da^^s.  Even  his  meals  did  not  3'ield  unmingled  sat- 
isfaction, as  he  had  learned  from  experience  that 
Mrs.  Hopkins  did  not  approve  of  giving  him  a  sec- 
ond slice  of  pie,  and  in  other  cases  interfered  to  check 
the  complete  gratification  of  his  appetite,  alleging 
that  it  wasn't  good  for  boys  to  eat  too  much. 


7 3:  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW;    OE^ 

Sam  took  a  different  view  of  the  matter,  and  felt 
tliat  if  he  was  willing  to  take  the  consequences,  he 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  eat  as  much  as  he  pleased. 
He  was  not  troubled  with  th-e  catechism  any  more. 
The  deacon  found  him  so  stolid  and  unteachable  that 
he  was  forced  to  give  up  in  despak,  and  Sam  became 
master  of  his  own  time  in  the  evening.  He  usually 
sti'ayed  into  the  village,  where  he  found  company  at 
the  village  store.  Here  it  was  that  he  met  a  youth 
who  was  destined  to  exercise  an  important  influence 
upon  his  career.  This  was  Ben  Barker,  who  had  for 
a  few  months  filled  a  position  in  a  small  retail  store 
in  New  York  city.  Coming  home,  he  found  himself 
a  great  man.  Countr}^  boj'S  have  generally  a  gi-eat 
curiosity  about  life  in  the  great  cities,  and  are  eager 
to  interview  any  one  who  can  give  them  authentic 
details  concerning  it.  For  this  reason  Ben  found 
himself  much  sought  after  by  the  village  boj^s,  and 
gave  dazzling  descriptions  of  life  in  the  metropolis, 
about  which  he  i)rofessed  to  be  fully  informed. 
Among  his  interested  listeners  was  Sam,  whose 
travels  had  been  limited  by  a  very  narrow  circle,  but 


ADEIFT  IN^  THE   STREETS,  75 

who,  lilie  the  majority  of  boys,  was  possessed  by  a 
strong  desire  to  see  the  world. 

"I  suppose  there  as  many  as  a  thousand  houses 
in  New  York,"  he  said  to  Ben. 

"A  thousand!"  repeated  Ben,  in  derision, 
''There's  a  million!" 

*' Honest?" 

"Yes,  they  reach  for  miles  and  miles.  There's 
about  twenty  thousand  streets." 

"  It  must  be  awfully  big.     I'd  like  to  go  there." 

"Oh,  you!"  said  Ben,  contemptuously.  "It 
wouldn't  do  for  you  to  go  there." 

"Why  not?" 

"  You  couldn't  get  along  nohow." 

"I'd  like  to  know  why  not?"  said  Sam,  rather 
nettled  at  this  depreciation. 

"Oh,  you're  a  country  greenhorn..  You'd  get 
taken  in  right  and  left." 

"I  don't  believe  I  would,"  said  Sam.  "I  ainl 
as  green  as  you  thinJi." 

"  You'd  better  stay  with  the  deacon,  and  hoe  pota- 
toes," said  Ben,  disparagingly.  "  It  takes  a  smart 
fellow  to  succeed  in  New  York." 


76  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW,    OR, 

"Is  that  the  reason  you  had  to  come  home?"  re- 
torted Sam. 

"I'm  going  back  pretty  soon,"  said  Ben.      "1 
shan't  stay  long  in  such  a  one-horse  place  as  this." 

"Is  it  far  to  New  York?"  asked  Sam,  thought- 
fully. 

"  Over  a  handi-ed  miles." 

"  Does  it  cost  much  to  go  there?" 

"  Three  dollars  by  the  cars." 

"  That  isn't  so  very  much." 

"  No,  but  you've  got  to  pay  your  expenses  when 
you  get  there." 

"  I  could  work." 

"  What  could  3'ou  do?    You  might,  perhaps,  black 
boots  in  the  City  Hall  Park." 

"What  ]pay  do  boys   get  for  doing  that?"  asked 
Sam,  seriousl}^ 

"  Sometimes  five  cents,  sometimes  ten." 

"I'd  lilie  it  better  than  farmin  ! " 

"It  might  do  for  you,"  said  Ben,  turning  up  his 
nose. 

"What  were  you  doing  when  you  were  in  New 
York,  Ben?" 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  77 

'•  I  was  chief  salesman  in  a  dry  goods  store,"  said 
Hen,  with  an  air  of  importance. 

*'  Was  it  a  good  place?  " 

"  Of  course  it  was,  or  I  wouldn't  have  staved 
there." 

"  What  made  you  leave  it?  " 

"  I  had  so  much  care  and  responsibility  that  the 
doctor  told  me  I  must  have  rest.  When  the  boss  was 
awa}^,  I  run  the  store  all  alone." 

There  was  no  one  to  contradict  Ben's  confident 
assertions,  and  though  some  doubt  was  entertained 
by  his  listener  none  was  expressed.  Considering 
Ben's  large  claims,  it  was  sm'prising  that  his  services 
were  not  sought  b}^  leading  New  York  fii-ms,  but, 
then,  merit  is  not  always  appreciated  at  once.  That 
was  Ben's  way  of  accounting  for  it. 

Sam  was  never  tired  of  asking  Ben  fresh  questions 
about  New  York.  His  imagination  had  been  in- 
flamed by  the  glowing  descriptions  of  the  latter,  and 
he  was  anxious  to  pass  through  a  similar  experience. 
In  fact,  he  was  slowly  making  up  his  mind  to  leave 
the  deacon,  and  set  out  for  the  brilliant  Paradise 
which  so  dazzled  his  youthful  fancy.     There  was  one 


78  THE    TOUNG    OUTLAW;   OR^ 

drawback,  however,  and  that  a  serious  one,  —  the 
lack  of  funds.  Though  the  deacon  supplied  him  with 
board,  and  would  doubtless  keep  him  in  wearing 
apparel,  there  was  no  hint  or  intimation  of  any 
fui'ther  compensation  for  his  services,  and  Sam's 
whole  available  money  capital  at  this  moment 
amounted  to  only  thi-ee  cents.  ISTow  thi-ee  cents 
would  pm^chase  thi'ee  sticks  of  candy,  and  Sam 
intended  to  appropriate  them  in  this  way, 
but  they  formed  a  slender  fund  for  travelling 
expenses  ;  and  the  worst  of  it  was  that  Sam  knew  of 
no  possible  way  of  increasing  them.  If  his  journey 
depended  upon  that,  it  would  be  indefinitely  post- 
poned. 

But  circumstances  favored  his  bold  design,  as  we 
shall  see. 

One  evening  as  Sam  was  returning  from  the  store, 
a  man  from  a  neighboring  town,  who  was  diiving  by, 
reined  up  his  horse,  and  said,  "  You  live  with  Deacon 
Hopkins,  don't  3'ou?" 

''Yes,  su\" 

"  Are  3'ou  going  home  now  ?  " 

''Yes,  sir." 


ADRIFT   m   THE   STREETS,  79 

"Then  I'll  hand  you  a  note  for  Mm.  Will  you 
think  to  give  it  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  I  would  stop  myself,  but  I  haven't  time  this 
evening." 

"  All  right.     I'll  give  it  to  him." 

"Take  good  care  of  it,  for  there's  money  in  it," 
said  the  man,  as  he  passed  it  to  the  boy. 

Money  in  it!  This  attracted  Sam's  attention,  and 
excited  his  curiosity. 

"  I  wonder  how  much  there  is  in  it,"  he  thought  to 
himself.  "  I  wish  it  was  mine.  I  could  go  to  New 
York  to-morrow  if  I  only  had  it." 

With  this  thought  prominent  in  his  mind,  Sam 
entered  the  house.  Mrs.  Hopkins  was  at  the  table 
knitting,  but  the  deacon  was  not  to  be  seen, 

"  Where  is  the  deacon?  "  asked  Sam. 

"He's  gone  to  bed,"  said  Mrs.  Hopkins.  "Did 
you  want  to  see  him  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Sam,  slowly. 

"It's  time  you  were  abed  too,  Sam,"  said  the 
lady.  "  You're  out  too  late,  as  I  was  tollin* 
the  deacon  to-night.     Boys   like   you  ought  to  be 


80  THE  TOUNG  outlaw;  or, 

abed  at  eight  o'clock  instead  of  settin'  up  half  the 
night." 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  to  bed  now,"  said  Sam,  taking  a 
lamp  from  the  table. 

"You'd  better,  and  mind  you  get  up  early  in  the 
mornin'." 

Sam  did  not  answer,  for  he  was  bus}^  thinking. 

He  went  upstau'S,  fastened  his  door  inside,  and 
taking  out  the  letter  surveyed  the  outside  critically. 
The  envelope  was  not  very  securely  fastened  and 
came  open.  Sam  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
presented,  and  drew  out  the  inclosure.  His  face 
flushed  with  excitement,  as  he  spread  out  two  five- 
dollar  bills  on  the  table  before  him. 

''  Ten  dollars  ! "  ejaculated  Sam.  "  What  a  lot  of 
money !  K  it  was  only  mine,  I'd  have  enough  to  go 
to  New  York." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE    STREETS.  81 


CHAPTER  IX. 


SAM  TAKES  FRENCH  LEAVE. 


If  Sam  had  been  brought  up  to  entertain  strict 
ideas  on  the  subject  of  taking  the  property  of  others, 
and  appropriating  it  to  his  own  use,  the  temporary 
possession  of  the  deacon's  money  would  not  have 
exposed  him  to  temptation.  But  his  conscience  had 
never  been  awakened  to  the  iniquity  of  theft.  So 
when  it  occuiTed  to  him  that  he  had  in  his  possession 
monej'  enough  to  gratif3^  his  secret  desire,  and  carry 
him  to  New  York,  there  to  enter  upon  a  brilliant 
career,  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  it  would  be 
morally  wrong  to  do  so.  He  did  realize  the  danger 
of  detection,  however,  and  balanced  in  his  mind 
whether  the  risk  was  worth  incurrinsf.  He  decided 
that  it  was. 

' '  The  deacon  don't  know  I've  got  the  money,"  he 

reflected.      "He  won't  find  out  for   a  good  while; 
6 


82  TRE    TOUNQ   OUTLAW;    OH, 

when  he  does  I  shall  be  in  New  York,  where  he  won't 
think  of  going  to  find  me." 

This  was  the  way  Sam  reasoned,  and  from  his 
point  of  view  the  scheme  looked  ver}^  plausible.  Sam 
had  a  shrewd  idea  that  his  services  were  not  suffi- 
ciently valuable  to  the  deacon  to  induce  him  to  make 
any  extraordinary  efforts  for  his  captui'e.  So,  on  the 
whole,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  run  away. 

"  Shall  "I  go  now,  or  wait  till  mornin'?*'  thought 
Sam. 

He  looked  out  of  his  window.  There  was  no 
moon,  and  the  night  was  therefore  dark.  It  would 
not  be  very  agreeable  to  roam  about  in  the  darkness. 
Besides,  he  was  liable  to  lose  his  way.  Again,  he 
felt  sleepy,  and  the  bed  looked  very  inviting. 

"  I'll  wait  till  mornin',"  thought  Sam.  "I'll  start 
about  fom%  and  go  over  to  Wendell,  and  take  the 
train  for  New  York.  I'll  be  awful  hungiy  when  I  get 
there.  I  wish  I  could  wait  till  after  breakfast ;  but 
it  won't  do." 

Sam  was  not  usually''  awake  at  four.  Indeed  he 
generally  depended  on  being  waked  up  by  the  deacon 
knocking  on  his  door.     But  when  bo3^s  or  men  have 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  83 

some  pleasure  in  view  it  is  apt  to  act  upon  the  mind 
even  when  wrapped  in  slumber,  and  produce  wakeful- 
ness. So  Sam  woke  up  about  quarter  of  four.  His 
plan  flashed  upon  him,  and  he  jumped  out  of  bed.  He 
dressed  quickly,  and,  taking  his  shoes  in  his  hand  so 
that  he  might  make  no  noise,  he  crept  downstairs, 
and  unlocked  the  front  door,  and  then,  after  shutting 
it  behind  him,  sat  down  on  the  front  door-stone  and 
put  on  his  shoes. 

''I  guess  they  didn't  hear  me,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  Now  I'll  be  going." 

The  sun  had  not  risen,  but  it  was  light  with  the 
gray  light  which  precedes  dawn.  There  was  every 
promise  of  a  fine  day,  and  this  helped  to  raise  Sam's 
spirits. 

"  What'U  the  deacon  say  when  he  comes  to  wake 
me  up?"  thought  our  hero,  though  I  am  almost 
ashamed  to  give  Sam  such  a  name,  for  I  am  afraid  he 
is  acting  in  a  manner  very  unlike  the  well-behaved 
heroes  of  most  juvenile  stories,  my  own  among  the 
number.  However,  since  I  have  chosen  to  write 
about  a   "young  outlaw,"  I  must  describe  him  as 


84  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW'^    OH,     ' 

he  is,  and  warn  my  boy  readers  that  I  by  no  meana 
recommend  them  to  pattern  after  him. 

Before  accompanying  Sam  on  his  travels,  let  us  see 
how  the  deacon  was  affected  by  his  flight. 

At  five  o'clock  he  went  up  to  Sam's  door  and 
knocked. 

There  was  no  answer. 

The  deacon  knocked  louder. 

Still  there  was  no  answer. 

"How  sound  the  boy  sleeps!"  muttered  the  old 
man,  and  he  applied  his  knuckles  vigorously  to  the 
door.  Still  without  effect.  Thereupon  he  tried  the 
door,  and  found  that  it  was  unlocked.  He  opened  it, 
and  walked  to  the  bed,  not  doubting  that  he  would 
see  Sam  fast  asleep.  But  a  surprise  awaited  him. 
The  bed  was  empty,  though  it  had  evidently  been 
occupied  during  the  night. 

"Bless  my  soul!  the  boy's  up,"  ejaculated  the 
deacon. 

A  wild  idea  came  to  him  that  Sam  had  voluntarily 
got  up  at  this  early  hour,  and  gone  to  work,  but  he 
dismissed  it  at  once  as  absurd.  He  knew  Sam  far 
too  well  for  that. 


ADRIFT  IN  TBE   STREETS.  85 

Why,  then,  had  he  got  up  ?  Perhaps  he  was  unwell, 
and  could  not  sleep.  Not  dreaming  of  his  running 
away,  this  seemed  to  the  deacon  the  most  plausible 
way  of  accounting  for  Sam's  disappearance,  but  he 
decided  to  go  down  and  communicate  the  news  to  his 
wife. 

"Why  were  you  gone  so  long,  deacon?"  asked 
Mrs.  Hopkins.     "  Couldn't  you  wake  him  up? " 

"He  wasn't  there." 

"  Wasn't  where?" 

"In  bed." 

' '  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  mean  that  Sam's  got  up  abeady.  I  couldn't 
find  him." 

"Couldn't  find  him?" 

"  No,  Martha." 

"  Had  the  bed  been  slept  in  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  s'pose  he  was  sick,  and  couldn't 
sleep,  so  he  went  downstairs." 

"  Perhaps  he's  gone  down  to  the  pantry,"  said 
Mrs.  Hopkins,  suspiciously.     "  I'll  go  down  and  see." 

She  went  downstairs,  followed  by  the  deacon. 
She  instituted  an  examination,  but  found  Sam  guilt- 


86  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW \    OR, 

less  of  a  fresh  attempt  upon  the  provision  depart- 
ment. She  went  to  the  front  door,  and  found  it 
unlocked. 

"  He's  gone  out,"  she  said. 

"So  he  has,  but  I  guess  he'll  be  back  to  break- 
fast," said  the  deacon. 

"  I  don't,"  said  the  ladj. 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  I  think  he's  run  away." 

"Run  away!"  exclaimed  the  deacon.  "Why,  I 
never  had  a  boy  run  away  from  me." 

"  Well,  you  have  now." 

"Where  would  he  go?  He  aint  no  home.  He 
wouldn't  go  to  the  poorhouse." 

"  Of  course  not.  I  never  heard  of  anybody  that 
had  a  comfortable  home  running  away  to  the  poor- 
house." 

' '  But  why  should  he  run  away  ?  "  argued  the  deacon. 

"Bo3^s  often  run  away,"  said  his  wife,  senten- 
tiously. 

"  He  had  no  cause." 

"Yes,  he  had.  You  made  him  work,  and  he's 
lazy,  and  don't  like  work.     I'm  not  surprised  at  all." 


ADRIFT  IN   THE   STREETS,  87 

''  I  s^pose  I'd  better  go  after  Mm,"  said  the  deaci)n. 

"Don't  you  stir  a  step  to  go,  deacon.  He  aint 
worth  going  after.     I'm  glad  we've  got  rid  of  him." 

"  Well,  he  didn't  do  much  work,"  admitted  the 
deacon. 

*'  While  he  ate  enough  for  two  boys.  Good  rid- 
dance to  bad  rubbish,  I  say.'* 

"  I  don't  know  how  he's  goin*  to  get  along.  He 
didn't  have  no  money." 

"I  don't  care  how  he  gets  along,  as  long  as  he 
don't  come  back.  There's  plenty  of  better  boj^s  you 
can  get." 

Sam  would  not  have  felt  flattered,  if  he  had  heard 
this  final  verdict  upon  his  merits.  It  must  be  con- 
fessed, however,  that  it  was  well  deserved. 

A  few  daj^s  afterwards,  the  deacon  obtained  the 
services  of  another  boy,  whom  he  found  more  satis- 
factor}^  than  the  runaway,  and  Sam  was  no  longer 
missed.  It  was  not  till  the  tenth  day  that  he  learned 
of  the  theft.  While  riding,  on  that  day,  he  met  Mr. 
Comstock,  who  had  confided  to  Sam  the  monejMetter. 

"  Good-morning,  Deacon  Plopkins,"  said  he, 
stopping  his  horse. 


88  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW]    OE, 

"  Good-morning,"  said  tlie  deacon. 

*'  I  suppose  your  boy  handed  3^ou  a  letter  from 
tne." 

* '  I  haven't  received  any  letter,"  said  the  deacon, 
smprised. 

' '  It  was  early  last  week  that  I  met  a  boy  who 
said  he  lived  with  you.  As  I  was  in  a  hurry,  I  gave 
him  a  letter  containing  ten  dollars,  which  I  asked 
him  to  give  to  you." 

"What  day  was  it?"  asked  the  deacon,  eagerly. 

*' Monday.  Do  you  mean  to  say  he  didn't  give  it 
to  you  ?  " 

"No;  he  ran  away  the  next  morning,  and  I 
haven't  seen  him  since." 

"Then  he  ran  away  with  the  money  —  the  young 
thief !     I  told  him  there  was  money  in  it." 

"Bless  my  soul !  I  didn't  think  Sam  was  so  bad," 
ejaculated  the  deacon. 

"  Didn't  you  go  after  him? '* 

"  No  ;  he  wasn't  very  good  to  work,  and  I  thought 
I'd  let  him  run.  Ef  I'd  knowed  about  the  money, 
I'd  have  gone  after  him.'* 

"  It  isn't  too  late,  now." 


AVRIFT  IN-  THE   STREETS.  89 

"  I'll  ask  my  wife  what  I'd  better  do." 

The  deacon  conferred  with  his  wife,  who  was 
gi-eatly  incensed  against  Sam,  and  wonld  have 
advised  ]Dm'suit,  but  they  had  no  clue  to  his  present 
whereabouts. 

"He'll  come  back  some  time,  deacon,"  said  she. 
"  When  he  does,  have  him  took  up." 

But  years  passed,  and  Sam  did  not  come  back,  nor 
did  the  deacon  set  eyes  on  him  for  four  years,  and 
then  under  the  circumstances  recorded  in  the  first 
chapter. 


90  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OH^ 


CHAPTER  X. 

bam's  adyentukes   at  the  depot. 

It  was  six  miles  to  tlie  station  at  Wendell,  where 
Sam  proposed  to  take  the  cars  for  New  York.  He 
had  to  travel  on  an  empty  stomach,  and  naturally 
got  ravenously  hungry  before  he  reached  his  destina- 
tion. About  half  a  mile  this  side  of  the  depot  he 
passed  a  grocery-store,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  might  get  something  to  eat  there. 

Entering  he  saw  a  young  man  in  his  shirt-sleeves 
engaged  in  sweeping. 

''  Have  you  got  an^^thing  good  to  eat?  "  asked  Sam. 

"  This  aint  a  hotel,"  said  the  young  man,  taking 
Sam  for  a  penniless  adventurer. 

"  I  knew  that  before,"  said  Sam,  "  but  haven't  you 
got  some  crackers  or  something,  to  stay  a  feller's 
stomach  ?  " 

"Haven't  jou  had  any  brealifast?"  asked  tlie 
clerk,  curiously. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  91 

"  No." 

"Don't  the  J  give  jom  breaMast  where  you  live?" 

"  Not  so  early  in  the  morning.  You  see  I  had  to 
take  an  earl}^  start,  'cause  I'm  goin'  to  attend  my 
grandmother's  Mineral." 

This  of  course  was  a  story  trumped  up  for  the 
occasion. 

"  "We've  got  some  raw  potatoes,"  said  the  clerk, 
grinning. 

"  I've  had  enough  to  do  with  potatoes,"  said  Sam. 
"  Haven't  3'ou  got  some  crackers  ?  " 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,  we  have.  How  many  will 
you  have  ?  " 

"  About  a  dozen." 

While  they  were  being  put  up  in  a  paper  bag,  the 
clerk  inquired,  "  How  far  off  does  your  grandmother 
live?" 

"  About  twenty  miles  from  here,  on  the  railroad," 
answered  Sam,  who  did'nt  care  to  mention  that  he 
was  bound  for  New  York. 

"Warwick,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam,  at  a  venture.  "  How  soon  does 
the  train  start?" 


92  THE    YOUKG   OUTLAW;    OR^ 

"  In  about  half  an  hour.  Hold  on,  though  ;  that's 
the  New  York  train,  and  don't  stop  at  Warwick." 

"I  guess  I'll  be  goin',"  said  Sam,  hurriedly. 
"Where's  the  depot?" 

"  Half  a  mile  straight  ahead,  but  you  needn't 
hurry.     The  train  for  Warwick  don't  go  till  ten." 

"  Never  mind.  I  want  to  see  the  New  York  train 
start;"  and  Sam  hurried  off  eating  crackers  as  he 
walked. 

"I'm  glad  the  train  starts  so  quick,"  thought 
Sam.  "  I  don't  want  to  wait  round  here  long.  I 
might  meet  somebody  that  knows  me." 

He  had  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  depot.  It  was 
a  plain  building,  about  twent}^  by  thirty  feet,  with  a 
piazza  ou  the  side  towards  the  track.  He  entered, 
and  going  up  to  the  ticket-office  asked  for  a  ticket  to 
New  York. 

"  For  yourself?  "  asked  the  station-master. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"  How  old  are  you?" 

"Twelve." 

"  Then  you'll  have  to  pay  for  'a  whole  ticket. 
Three  dollars." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  93 

"All  right,"  said  Sam,  promptly,  and  he  drew  out 
a  five-dollar  bill,  receiving  in  return  two  dollars  and 
a  ticket. 

"Do  3^ou  live  in  New  York,  sonny?"  asked  the 
station-master. 

"No,  I'm  only  goin*  to  see  my  aunt,"  answered 
Sam,  with  another  impromptu  falsehood. 

"  I  know  something  about  New  York.  In  what 
street  does  your  aunt  live  ?  " 

Sam  was  posed,  for  he  did  not  know  the  name  of 
even  one  street  in  the  city  he  was  going  to. 

"I  don't  exactly  remember,"  he  was  forced  to 
admit. 

"  Then  how  do  you  expect  to  find  her  if  you  don't 
know  where  she  lives  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she'll  meet  me  at  the  depot,"  said  Sam^ 
readily. 

"  Suppose  she  don't?  " 

"  rU  find  her  somehow.  But  she's  sure  to  meet 
me." 

"  Going  to  stay  long  in  the  city?" 

"  I  hope  so.  Perhaps  my  aunt'U  adopt  me.  How 
Boon  will  the  train  be  along  ?  ** 


94  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR^ 

**  In  about  fifteen  minutes." 

Here  an  old  lady  came  up,  and  asked  for  a  ticket 
to  New  York. 

"  Three  dollars,  ma'am." 

''Three  dollars!  Can't  you  take  less?"  asked 
the  old  lady,  fumbling  in  her  pocket  for  her  purse. 

"  No  ma'am,  the  price  is  fixed." 

"It's  a  sight  of  money.  Seems  throwed  away, 
too,  jest  for  travellin'.  You  haint  got  anything  to 
show  for  it.     I  never  was  to  York  in  my  life." 

"  Please  hurry,  ma'am,  there  are  others  waiting." 

"  Massy  sakes,  don't  be  so  hasty !  There's  the 
money." 

"  And  there's  your  ticket." 

"I  wish  I  know'd  somebody  goin'  to  New  York. 
I'm  afeared  to  travel  alone." 

"  There's  a  boy  going,"  said  the  station-master, 
pointing  to  Sam. 

"Are  you  goin'  to  York?"  asked  the  old  lady, 
peering  o^'er  her  spectacles  at  Sam. 

"  Yes,  ma'am." 

"  Was  3^ou  ever  there  afore  ?  " 

*'  No,  ma'am." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  95 

"  Aint  your  folks  afeared  to  have  you  go  alone?" 

"  Oh,  no,  they  don't  mind." 

"  I  wish  you  was  older,  so's  you  could  look  after 
me." 

Sam  was  rather  flattered  by  the  idea  of  having  a 
lady  under  his  charge,  and  said,  "  I'll  take  care  of 
you,  if  you  want  me  to." 

"  Will  you?  That's  a  good  boy.  What's  your 
name  ?  " 

"  Sam  Barker,"  answered  our  hero,  with  some 
hesitation,  not  feeling  sure  whether  it  was  politic  to 
mention  his  real  name. 

"  Do  you  live  in  New  York? " 

"  No,  ma'am  ;  but  I'm  goin'  to." 

"  When  will  the  cars  git  along?" 

"  In  about  ten  minutes." 

"  You'll  help  me  get  in,  won't  3^ou?  I've  got  two 
bandboxes,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  manage." 

"  Yes,  ma'am,  I'll  help  3'ou.  I'm  goin'  out  on  the 
platform,  but  I'll  come  in  when  the  cars  come 
along." 

Sam  went  out  on  the  platform,  and  watched 
eagerly  for  the  approach  of  the  cars.     Up  they  came, 


96  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;   OR^ 

thundering  along  the  track,  and  Sam  rushed  into  the 
depot  in  excitement. 

"  Come  along,  ma'am,"  he  said.  "  The  cars  are 
here." 

The  old  lad}^  was  in  a  flutter  of  excitement  also. 
She  seized  one  bandbox,  and  Sam  the  other,  and 
they  hurried  out  on  the  platform.  They  were  just 
climbing  up  the  steps,  when  the  conductor  asked, 
"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

*' To  York,  of  course." 

"  Then  this  isn't  the  train.  It  is  going  in  the  op- 
posite direction." 

"  Lawful  suz  !  "  ejaculated  the  old  lad}^  in  dismay. 
"What  made  jovi  tell  me  wrong,  jou.  bad  bo}"?" 
and  she  glared  at  him  reproachfully  over  her  giasseSo 

"  How  should  I  know?"  said  Sam,  rather  abashed. 
''  I  didn't  know  about  no  other  train.'* 

"  You  come  near  makin'  me  go  wrong." 

"  I  can't  help  it.     It  would  be  just  as  bad  for  me." 

"When  does  the  train  go  to  York,  somebod}'?" 
asked  the  old  lady,  looking  about  her  in  a  general 
way. 

"  Next  train  ;  comes  round  in  about  five  minutes." 


ADJtlFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  97 

Sam  helped  the  old  lady  back  into  the  depot,  rather 
ashamed  of  the  mistake  he  had  made.  He  saw  that 
she  had  lost  some  of  her  confidence  in  him,  and  it 
mortified  him  somewhat. 

It  was  nearly  ten  minutes  afterwards, — for  the 
train  was  late,  —  before  the  right  cars  came  up. 

Sam  dashed  into  the  depot  again,  and  seized  a 
bandbox. 

"  Here's  the  cars.     Come  along,"  he  said. 

' '  I  won't  stir  a  step  till  I  know  if  it's  the  right 
cars,"  said  the  old  lady  firmly. 

"Then  you  may  stay  here,"  said  Sam.  "I'm 
goin'." 

"  Don't  leave  your  gi'andmother,"  said  a  gentleman, 
standing  by. 

"  She  isn't  my  grandmother.  Isn't  this  the  train  to 
New  York?" 

"Yes." 

Sam  seized  the  bandbox  once  more,  and  this  time 
the  old  lad}''  followed  him. 

The}'  got  into  the  cars  without  difficulty,  and  the 

old  lady  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Sam  took  a  seat  at  the  window  just  behind  her,  and 
7 


98  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OH., 

Ms  heart  bounded  with  exultation  as  he  reflected  that 
in  a  few  hours  he  would  be  in  the  great  cit}',  of  which 
he  had  such  vague  and  wonderful  ideas.  The  only 
drawback  to  his  enjoyment  was  the  loss  of  his  usual 
morning  meal.  The  crackers  helped  to  fill  him  up, 
but  they  were  a  poor  substitute  for  the  warm  break- 
fast to  which  he  had  been  accustomed  at  the  dea- 
con's. Still  Sam  did  not  wish  himself  back.  In- 
deed, as  he  thought  of  the  deacon's  bewilderment  on 
discovering  his  disappearance,  ho  broke  into  an  in- 
voluntary laugh. 

''What  are  you  laffin'  at?"  asked  the  old  lad}^, 
suspiciously. 

Sam  answered,  "  I  was  thinkin'  how  near  we  came 
to  bein'  carried  off  to  the  wrong  place." 

"  That  ain't  anything  to  laff  at,"  said  the  old  lady, 
grimly. 


AVRIFT  Iisr  THE  STREETS,  ^d 


CHAPTER    XI. 

FIRST    EXPERIENCES    IN"    THE    C.tTT. 

There  are  few  boys  who  do  not  enjoy  a  trip  on  the 
raiboad,  especially  for  the  first  time.  The  five  hours 
which  Sam  spent  on  his  journey  gave  him  unqualified 
delight.  Occasionally  his  attention  was  called  off 
from  the  scenery  by  an  exclamation  from  the  old  lady, 
who  at  every  jolt  thought  the  cars  were  off  the  track. 

Sam  liberally  patronized  the  apple  and  peanut 
merchant,  who  about  once  an  hour  walked  through  the 
cars.  The  crackers  which  he  had  purchased  at  the 
grocery  store  had  not  spoiled  his  appetite,  but  rather 
appeared  to  sharpen  it.  The  old  lady  apparently 
became  hungry  also,  for  she  called  the  apple  vender 
to  her.  , 

^'What  do  you  ask  for  them  apples?"  she  in- 
quired. 

"ITie  largest  are  three  cents  apiece,  the  smallest, 
two  cents." 


100  THE  YOUNG  outlaw;  or^ 

"That's   an   awful  price.     They  aint  worth  half 
that." 

"  We  can't  sell  'em  for  less,  and  make  any  profit." 

"  I'll  give  you  a  cent  for  that  one,"  she  continued, 
pointing  to  the  largest  in  the  basket. 

"That!     Why,  that's  a  three-center.     Can't  take 
it  nohow." 

"  I'll  give  you  three  cents  for  them  two." 

"  No,  ma'am,  you  may  have  'em  for  five  cents." 

"Then  I  won't  buy  'em.     My  darter  will  give  me 
plenty  for  nothin'." 

"  She  may,  but  I  can't." 

So  the  old  lady  heroically  put  away  the  temptation, 
and  refused  to  purchase. 

All  things  must  have  an  end,  and  Sam's  journey 
was  at  length  over.  The  cars  entered  the  great 
depot.  Sam  hurried  out  of  the  cars,  never  giving  a 
thought  to  the  old  ladj^,  who  expected  his  help  in  car- 
rying out  her  bandboxes.  He  was  eager  to  make  his 
first  acquaintance  with  the  streets  of  New  York. 
There  was  a  crowd  of  hackmen  in  waiting,  all  of 
whom  appeared  to  Sam  to  be  seeing  which  could  talk 
fastest. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  101 

*'  Have  a  carriage,  sir?     Take  you  to  any  hotel." 

One  of  them  got  hold  of  Sam  by  the  arms,  and 
attempted  to  lead  him  to  his  carriage. 

"Hold  on  a  minute,  mister,"  said  Sam,  drawing 
back.     "  Where  are  you  goin'  to  take  me  ?  " 

"Anywhere  you  say.  Astor  House,  St.  Nicholas, 
or  any  other." 

"Is  it  far?" 

"  About  five  miles,"  said  the  hackman,  glibly. 

" How  much  are  you  goin'  to  charge?" 

"  Only  three  dollars." 

"  Three  dollars ! "  repeated  Sam,  in  amazement. 

He  had  less  than  seven  dollars  now,  and,  though  he 
was  not  particularly  provident,  he  knew  that  it  would 
never  do  to  spend  almost  half  his  slender  stock  of 
money  for  cab-hire. 

"  Never  mind,"  said  he.     "  I'll  walk." 

"  You  can't ;  it's  too  far,"  said  the  hackman,  eager 
for  a  fare. 

"I'll  try." 

So  Sam  walked  out  of  the  depot,  and  walked 
away.  He  didn't  know  exactly  where  to  go,  and 
thought  he  would  follow  a  man  with  a  carpet-bag 


102  THE    YOUNG   OVTLAW;    OR, 

who  appeared  to  know  Ms  way.  This  man  uncon- 
sciously guided  him  to  Broadway.  Sam  realized, 
from  the  stately  character  of  the  buildings,  that  he 
was  in  an  important  street,  and,  cutting  loose  from 
his  guide,  walked  down  towards  the  City  Hall  Park. 
It  seemed  to  him  like  a  dream ;  these  beautiful  ware- 
houses, showy  stores,  and  the  moving  throng,  which 
never  seemed  to  grow  less,  surprised  him  also. 
Though  he  Ivnew  in  advance  that  New  York  must  be 
very  different  from  the  little  country  town  which, 
until  now,  had  been  his  home,  he  was  not  prepared 
for  so  great  a  difference,  and  wandered  on,  his  mouth 
and  eyes  wide  oi3en. 

At  last  he  readied  the  City  Hall  Park,  and,  catch- 
ing sight  of  a  bench  on  which  one  or  two  persons 
were  already  sitting,  Sam,  feeling  tired  with  his  walk, 
entered  the  Park,  and  sat  down  too. 

''Black  yer  boots?"  inquired  a  dirty-faced  boy, 
with  a  box  slung  over  his  shoulders. 

Sam  looked  at  his  shoes,  begrimed  with  a  long 
country  walk,  and  hesitated. 

"  What  do  you  ask?  "  he  said. 


ADRIFT  ly   THE    STREETS,  103 

*' It's  worth  a  quarter  to  black  them  shoes,"  said 
the  boy,  swinging  them  critically. 

''  Then  I  can't  afford  it." 

''  Twenty  cents." 

"  No,"  said  Sam.  "  I've  got  to  earn  my  own 
living,  and  I  can't  afford  it.  Is  blacMn*  boots  a  good 
business  ?  " 

"  Some  days  it  is,  but  if  it  comes  rainy,  it  isn't. 
I'll  give  you  a  bully  shine  for  ten  cents." 

"Will  you  show  me  afterwards  where  I  can  get 
some  dinner  cheap  ?"  asked  Sam,  who  was  still 
hungry. 

"Yes,"  said  the  boot-black.  "I  know  a  tip-top 
place." 

"Is  it  far  off?" 

"  Right  round  in  Chatham  street  —  only  a  minute's 
walk." 

"  All  right.     Go  ahead.     I'll  give  you  ten  cents." 

Sam  felt  that  he  was  paying  his  money  not  only  for 
the  actual  service  done,  but  for  valuable  information 
besides.  On  the  whole,  though  he  knew  he  must  be 
economical,  it  seemed  to  him  a  paying  investment. 

"Did  you  come  from  the   count/y?"   asked  the 


104  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

young  kniglit  of  the  blacldng-brnsli,  while  he  was 
vigorously  brushing  the  first  shoe. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam.     "  I  only  got  here  just  now/* 

*'  That's  what  I  thought." 

''Why?" 

"  Because  you  look  like  a  greenhorn." 

"Do  you  mean  to  insult  me?"  asked  Sam, 
nettled. 

"  No,"  said  the  other ;  "  only  if  j^ou've  never  been 
here  before  of  course  you're  gTeen." 

"  I  won't  be  long,"  said  Sam,  hastily. 

"  Course  you  won't,  'specially  if  you  have  me  to 
show  3^ou  round." 

"Have  you  lived  long  in  New  York?"  inquired 
Sam. 

"  I  was  born  here,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Have  you  been  long  blackin'  boots  ?  " 

"  Ever  since  I  was  knee-high  to  a  door-step." 

"  Then  you  make  a  living  at  it?  " 

*'  I  don't  starve.  What  made  3^ou  leave  the 
country?" 

"  I  got  tired  of  working  on  a  farm." 

"  Did  you  have  enough  to  eat? " 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  105 

"  And  a  good  "bed  to  sleep  in?" 

"Yes." 

"  Then  j^on'd  ought  to  have  stayed  there,"  said  the 
boot-black. 

"I  think  I  shall  lil^e  the  city  better,"  said  Sam. 
•'  There's  a  good  deal  more  goin'  on." 

"I'd  like  to  try  the  country.  You  don't  live  at 
the  West,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"Lots  of  boys  goes  West.  Maybe  I'll  go  there, 
some  time." 

"  Is  it  a  good  place  ?  " 

"That's  what  they  say.  The  boys  gets  good 
homes  out  there  on  farms." 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  go,"  said  Sam.  "I'm 
tired  of  farmin'." 

B}^  this  time  the  shoes  were  polished. 

"  Aint  that  a  bully  shine?"  asked  the  boot-black, 
surveying  his  work  with  satisfaction. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam.     "  You  know  how  to  do  it." 

"  Course  I  do.     Now  where's  the  stamps  ?  " 

Sam  drew  o  it  ten  cents,  and  handed  to  the  boy. 


106  THE  YOUNG  outlaw;  oh, 

*'  Now  show  me  where  I  can  get  some  dinner." 

"All  right.  Come  along!"  and  the  boj",  slinging 
his  box  over  his  shoulder,  led  the  way  to  a  small  place 
on  Chatham  street.  It  was  in  a  basement,  and  did 
not  look  over-neat ;  but  Sam  was  too  hungry  to  be 
particular,  and  the  odor  of  the  cooldng  was  very 
grateful  to  him. 

"  I  guess  I'll  get  a  plate  o'  meat,  too,"  said  the 
boot-black.     "  I  aint  had  anything  since  breakfast." 

Thej^  sat  down  side  by  side  at  a  table,  and  Sam 
looked  over  the  bill  of  fare.  He  finall}^  ordered  a 
plate  of  roast  beef,  for  ten  cents,  and  his  companion 
followed  his  example.  The  plates  were  brought,  ac- 
companied hy  a  triangular  wedge  of  bread,  and  a 
small  amount  of  mashed  potato.  It  was  not  a  feast 
for  an  epicure,  but  both  Sam  and  his  companion  ap- 
peared to  enjoy  it. 

Sam  was  still  hungry. 

*•■  They  didn't  bring  much,"  he  said.  "  I  guess  I'll 
have  another  plate." 

"  I  aint  got  stamps  enough,"  said  his  companion. 

*'  If  you  want  another  plate,  I'll  pay  for  it,"  said 
Sam,  with  a  sudden  impulse  of  generosity. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  107 

"Will  you?  You're  a  brick!"  said  the  boot- 
black heartily.  "  Then  I  don't  mind.  I'll  have 
another." 

"  Do  they  have  any  pie?"  asked  Sam. 

"  Course  they  do." 

"  Then  I'll  have  a  piece  afterwards." 

He  did  not  offer  to  treat  his  companion  to  pie,  for 
he  realized  that  his  stock  of  money  was  not  inex- 
haustible. This  did  not  appear  to  be  expected,  how- 
ever, and  the  two  parted  on  very  good  terms,  when 
the  dinner  was  over. 


108  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW:    Oil, 


CHAPTER  XII. 


CLARENCE   BROWN. 


Sam  continued  to  walk  about  in  tlie  neighbor- 
hood of  the  City  Hall  Park,  first  in  one  direction, 
then  in  another ;  but  at  last  he  became  fatigued.  It 
had  been  an  unusually  exciting  day,  and  he  had 
taken  more  exercise  than  usual,  though  he  had  not 
worked  ;  for  his  morning  walk,  added  to  his  rambles 
about  the  city  streets,  probably  amounted  to  not  less 
than  twelve  miles.  Then,  too,  Sam  began  to  realize 
what  older  and  more  extensive  travellers  know  well, 
that  nothing  is  more  wearisome  than  sight-seeing. 

So  the  problem  forced  itself  upon  his  attention  — 
where  was  he  to  sleep?  The  bed  he  slept  in  the 
night  before  was  more  than  a  hundred  miles  away. 
It  struck  Sam  as  strange,  for  we  must  remember  how 
inexperienced  he  was,  that  he  must  paj^  for  the  use 
of  a  bed.  How  much,  he  had  no  idea,  but  felt  that  it 
was  time  to  make  some  inquiries. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  109 

lie  went  into  a  hotel  on  the  European  system,  and 
aslied  a  man  who  was  standing'  at  the  cigar  stand, 
"  What  do  you  charge  for  sleeping  here?" 

"Ask  of  that  man  at  the  desk,"  said  the  cigar- 
vender. 

Sam  followed  directions,  and,  approaching  the 
room-clerk,  x^referred  the  same  inquiry. 

"  One  dollar,"  was  the  answer. 

"  One  dollar,  just  for  sleeping?"  inquired  Sam,  in 
surprise,  for  in  his  native  village  he  knew  that  the 
school-teacher  got  boarded  for  three  dollars  a  week, 
board  and  lodging  complete  for  seven  days. 

"  Those  are  our  terms,"  said  the  clerk. 

*'  I  don't  care  about  a  nice  room,"  said  Sam, 
hoping  to  secure  a  reduction. 

"We  charge  more  for  our  nice  rooms,"  said  the 
clerk. 

"  Aint  there  any  cheaper  hotels?"  asked  our 
hero,  rather  dismayed  at  his  sudden  discovery  of  the 
great  cost  of  living  in  New  York. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  the  clerk,  carelessly;  but  he 
did  not  volunteer  any  information  as  to  their 
whereabouts. 


110  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    02f, 

Sam  wallied  slowly  out  of  the  hotel,  quite  uncer- 
tain where  to  go,  or  what  to  do.  He  had  money 
enough  to  ]pay  for  a  night's  lodging,  even  at  this  higl 
price,  but  he  judged  wisely  that  he  could  not  afford  to 
spend  so  large  a  part  of  his  small  stock  of  money. 

"I  wonder  where  the  boys  sleep  that  black  boots," 
he  thought.  "  They  can't  paj^  a  dollar  a  night  foi 
sleeping." 

He  looked  around  for  the  boy  who  had  guided  him 
to  a  restaurant,  but  could  not  find  him. 

It  was  now  eight  o'clock,  and  he  begun  to  think  he 
should  have  to  go  back  to  the  hotel  after  all,  when  a 
shabby-looking  man,  with  watery  eyes  and  a  red 
nose,  accosted  him. 

''Are  3^ou  a  stranger  in  the  city,  my  young 
friend?"  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam,  rather  relieved  at  the  oppor- 
tunity of  speaking  to  somebod}^ 

"  So  I  thought.     Where  are  you  boarding?" 

"  Nowhere,"  said  Sam. 

"  Where  do  you  sleep  to-night?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sam,  rather  helplessly. 

"  Why  don't  you  go  to  a  hotel?" 


ADUIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  111 

"  They  charge  too  much,"  said  Sam. 

"  Haven't  jovl  got  money  enough  to  pay  for  a  lodg- 
ing at  a  hotel  ? "  asked  the  stranger,  with  rather  less 
interest  in  his  manner. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Sam,  "  a  good  deal  more  than  that ; 
but  then,  I  want  to  make  my  money  last  till  I  can 
earn  something." 

"  To  be  sure,  to  be  sure,"  answered  the  stranger, 
his  interest  returning.  "  You  are  quite  right,  my 
dear  friend.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  are  so  sensi- 
ble. Of  com'se  you  ought  not  to  go  to  a  hotel. 
They  charge  too  high  altogether." 

"  But  I  must  sleep  somewhere,"  said  Sam,  anx- 
iously. * '  I  only  got  to  New  York  this  morning,  and 
I  don't  know  where  to  go." 

"  Of  course,  of  course.  I  thought  you  might  be 
in  trouble,  seeing  you  were  a  stranger.  It's  lucky 
you  met  me." 

"  Can  5^ou  tell  me  of  any  place  to  spend  the 
night?"  asked  Sam,  encouraged  by  the  stranger's 
manner. 

"Yes;  I'll  let  you  stay  with  me,  and  it  shan't 
cost  vou  a  cent." 


112  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sam,  congratulating  Mmself 
on  liis  good  luck  in  meeting  so  benevolent  a  man. 
He  could  not  help  admitting  to  himself  that  the 
philanthropist  looked  shabby,  even  seedy.  He  was 
not  the  sort  of  man  from  whom  he  would  have  ex- 
pected such  kindness,  but  that  made  no  difference. 
The  offer  was  evidently  a  desirable  one,  and  Sam 
accepted  it  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 

"  I  remember  when  I  came  to  the  city  myself," 
explained  the  stranger.  "  I  was  worse  off  than  3'ou, 
for  I  had  no  monej^  at  all.  A  kind  man  gave  me  a 
night's  lodging,  just  as  I  offer  one  to  j^ou,  and  I 
determined  that  I  would  do  the  same  by  others  when 
I  had  a  chance." 

"  You  are  very  kind,"  said  Sam. 

"Perhaps  jom  won't  say  so  when  you  see  my 
loom,"  said  the  other.     "  I  am  not  a  rich  man. ' 

Glancing  at  the  man's  attire,  Sam  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  believing  him.  Our  hero,  though  not  very 
observing,  was  not  prepossessed  in  favor  of  the  New 
York  tailors  b}^  what  he  saw,  for  the  stranger's  coat 
\ras  very  long,  while  his  pants  were  very  short,  and 
his  vest  was  considerably  too  large  for  him.     Instead 


o 

a 

o 


ADRIFT  IK  THE  STREETS.  113 

of  a  collar  and  cravat,  lie  wore  a  ragged  silk  hand- 
kerchief tied  round  his  throat.  His  hat  was  crumpled 
and  greas}^,  and  the  best  that  could  be  said  of  it  was, 
that  it  corresponded  with  the  rest  of  his  dress. 

"I  don't  live  in  a  very  nice  place,"  said  the 
stranger ;  ' '  but  perhaps  yoM  can  ]3ut  up  with  it  for 
one  night." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  said  Sam,  hastily.  "  I  aint 
used  to  an^^thing  very  nice." 

"  Then  it's  all  right,"  said  the  stranger.  "  Such 
as  it  is,  3'ou  are  welcome.  Now,  I  suppose  you  are 
tired." 

"  Yes,  I  am,"  said  Sam. 

' '  Then  I'll  take  jou  to  my  room  at  once.  "We'll 
go  up  Centre  street." 

Sam  cheerfully  followed  his  conductor.  He  felt 
like  a  storm-tossed  mariner,  who  has  just  found  port. 

"  What  is  your  name?"  asked  his  guide. 

"  Sam  Barker." 

"  Mine  is  Clarence  Brown." 

"Is  it?"  asked  Sam. 

He  could  not  help  thinking  the  name  too  fine  for 
%  man  of  such  shabby  appearance,  and  ^^et  it  would 


114  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

be  hard,  when  names   are   so  cheap,  if  all  the  best 
ones  should  be  bestowed  on  the  wealthy. 

"  It's  a  good  name,  isn't  it?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"Tip-top." 

"I  belong  to  a  good  family,  though  you  wouldn't 
think  it  to  look  at  me  now,"  continued  his  guide. 
*'My  father  was  a  wealthy  merchant." 

' '  "Was  he  ?  "  asked  Sam,  curiously. 

"Yes,  we  lived  in  a  splendid  mansion,  and  kept 
plenty  of  servants.  I  was  sent  to  an  expensive 
school,  and  I  did  not  dream  of  coming  to  this." 

Mr.  Brown  wiped  his  e^'es  with  his  coat-sleeve,  as 
he  thus  revived  the  memories  of  his  early 
opulence. 

"Did  your  father  lose  his  money?"  asked  Sam, 
getting  interested. 

' '  He  did  indeed,"  said  the  stranger,  with  emotion. 
"  It  was  in  the  panic  of  1837.  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
it?" 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Sam,  who  was  not  ver}^  conver- 
sant with  the  financial  history  of  the  countr3\ 

"My  father  became  a  banlvrupt,  and  soon  after 
died  of  grief,"  continued  the  stranger.    "  I  was  called 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  115 

back  from  boarding-school,  and  thrown  npon  the  cold 
mercies  of  the  world." 

"  That  was  hard  on  you,"  said  Sam. 

"It  was,  indeed,  my  young  friend.  I  perceive 
that  you  have  a  s^Tupathetic  heart.  You  can  feel  for 
the  woes  of  others." 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam,  concluding  that  such  an  answer 
was  expected. 

*'  I  am  glad  I  befriended  you.  Have  you  also  seen 
better  days  ?  " 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Sam.  "It's  been 
pleasant  enough  to-day." 

"I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean,  were  you  ever 
rich?" 

"  Not  that  I  can  remember,"  said  Sam. 

"Then  you  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  reduced 
from  affluence  to  poverty.     It  is  a  bitter  experience." 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Sam,  who  felt  a  little 
tired  of  Clarence  Brown's  reminiscences,  and  won- 
dered how  soon  they  would  reach  that  gentleman's 
house.  • 

Meanwhile  they  had  gone  up  Centre  street,  and 
turned  into  Leonard  street.    It  was  not  an  attractive 


116  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW;   OJl, 

locality,  nor  were  tlie  odors  that  reached  Sam's  nosa 
very  savory. 

"This  is  where  I  live,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  pausing 
before  a  large  and  dilapidated-looking  tenement 
house  of  discolored  brick. 

"  You  don't  live  here  alone,  do  you?  "  inquired  Sam, 
who  was  not  used  to  crowded  tenement  houses. 

"Oh,  no,  I  onlj  occup}^  an  humble  room  up-stairs. 
Follow  me,  and  I'll  lead  you  to  it." 

The  staircase  was  dirty,  and  in  keeping  with  the 
external  appearance  of  the  house.  The  wall  i^aper 
was  torn  off  in  places,  and  contrasted  very  unfavor- 
abty  with  the  neat  house  of  Deacon  Hopkins.  Sam 
noticed  this,  but  he  was  tired  and  sleepy,  and  was  not 
disposed  to  be  over-critical,  as  he  followed  Mi*.  Brown 
in  silence  to  the  fourth  floor. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  117 


CHAPTER    XIII. 


ROBBED    IN   HIS   SLEEP. 


Arrived  at  Ms  destination  Mr.  Brown  opened  a 
door,  and  bade  Sam  enter.     It  was  rather  dark,  and 
it  was  not  until  his  host  lighted  a  candle,  that  Sam 
could  obtain  an  idea  of  the  appearance  of  the  room. 
The  ceiling  was  low,  and  the  furniture  scanty.     A 
couple  of  chairs,  a  small  table,  of  which  the  paint  was 
worn  off  in  spots,  and  a  bed  in  the  corner,  were  the 
complete  outfit  of  Mr.  Brown's  home.     He  set  the 
candle  on  the  table,  and  remarked  apologeticall}^ :  "  I 
don't  live  in  much  style,  as  you  see.     The  fact  is,  I 
am  at  present  in  straitened  circumstances.     When  my 
uncle  dies  I  shall  inherit  a  fortune.     Then,  when  you 
come  to  see  me,  I  will  entertain  you  handsomely." 
"  Is  your  uncle  rich?  "  asked  Sam. 
"  I  should  say  he  was.     He's  a  millionnaire." 
"  Why  don't  he  do  something  for  jovl  now?  " 
Mr.  Clarence  Brown  shrugged  his  shoulders. 


118  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR^ 

*'He's  a  very  peculiar  man  —  wants  to  keep  every 
cent  as  long  as  he  live^.  When  he's  dead  it's  got  to 
go  to  his  heirs.  That's  why  he  lives  in  a  palatial 
mansion  on  Madison  Avenue,  while  I,  his  nephew, 
occupy  a  shabby  apartment  like  this." 

Sam  looked  about  him,  and  mentally  admitted  the 
justice  of  the  term.  It  was  a  shabby  apartment, 
without  question.  Still,  he  was  to  lodge  there  gratis, 
and  it  was  not  for  him  to  complain. 

"  B}^  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Brown,  casually,  after  ex- 
ploring his  pockets  apparently  without  success,  "  you 
haven't  got  a  quarter,  have  you?" 

*'  Yes,  I  guess  so." 

''AH  right;  I'll  borrow  it  till  to-morrow,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Sam,  handing  over  the  sum 
desired. 

' '  I'll  go  out  and  get  some  whiskey.  My  sj^stem 
requires  it.  You  won't  mind  being  left  alone  for  five 
minutes." 

"Oh,  no." 

"  Very  good.     I  won't  stay  long." 


ADRIFT  IN   THE   STREETS.  119 

Mr.  Brown  went  out,  and  our  hero  sat  down  on  the 
bed  to  wait  for  him. 

'•'■  So  this  is  my  first  night  in  the  city,"  he  thought. 
"  I  expected  they  had  better  houses.  This  room  isn't 
half  so  nice  as  I  had  at  the  deacon's.  But  then  I 
haven't  got  to  hoe  potatoes.  I  guess  I'll  like  it  when 
I  get  used  to  it.  There  isn't  anybody  to  order  me 
round  here." 

Presently  Mr.  Brown  came  back.  He  had  a  bottle 
partially  full  of  whiskey  with  him. 

"Sorry  to  keep  you  waiting,"  he  said.  ""Were 
you  lonely?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"I've  got  a  couple  of  glasses  here  somewhere.  Oh, 
here  they  are.     Now  we'll  see  how  it  tastes." 

"Not  much  for  me,"  said  Sam.  "I  don't  think 
I'll  like  it." 

"  It'll  be  good  for  your  stomach.  However,  I 
won't  give  you  much." 

He  poured  out  a  little  in  one  tumbler  for  Sam,  and 
a  considerably  larger  amount  for  himself. 

"  Your  health,"  he  said,  nodding. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sam. 


120  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OE, 

Sam  tasted  the  wMskej^,  but  the  taste  did  not 
please  him.  He  set  down  the  glass,  but  his  host 
drained  his  at  a  di-aught. 

*'  Don't  you  like  it?  "  asked  Brown. 

'•Not  very  much." 

*'  Don't  3^ou  care  to  drink  it?" 

''I  guess  not." 

''  It's  a  pity  it  should  be  wasted." 

To  prevent  this,  Mr.  Brown  emptied  Sam's  glass 
also. 

"  Now,,  if  you  are  not  sleep}',  we  might  have  a 
game  of  cards,"  suggested  Brown. 

"  I  think  I'd  rather  go  to  bed,"  said  Sam,  j^awning. 

"  All  right !  Go  to  bed  sluj  time.  I  dare  say  jou 
are  tired.     Do  3^ou  go  to  sleep  easil}^  ?  " 

"In  a  jiffy." 

"Then  j^ou  won't  mind  ni}^  absence.  I've  got  to 
make  a  call  on  a  sick  friend,  but  I  shan't  be  out  late. 
Just  make  j^ourself  at  home,  go  to  sleep,  and 
3'ou'll  see  me  in  the  morning." 

"  Thank  3'ou,  sir." 

"  Don't  bolt  the  door,  as  I  don't  want  to  wake  you 
ap  when  I  come  in.'* 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  121 

"All  right." 

Again  Mr.  Brown  went  out,  and  Sam  undressed 
and  got  into  bed.  It  was  not  very  comfortable,  and 
the  solitary  sheet  looked  as  if  it  had  not  been 
changed  for  three  months  or  more.  However,  Sam 
was  not  fastidious,  and  he  was  sleepy.  So  he  closed 
his  eyes,  and  was  soon  in  the  land  of  dreams. 

It  was  about  two  hours  afterward  that  Clarence 
Brown  entered  the  room.  He  walked  on  tiptoe  to 
the  bed,  and  looked  at  Sam. 

"  He's  fast  asleep,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Did  he 
undress?  Oh,  j-es,  here  are  his  clothes.  I'll  take  the 
liberty  of  examining  his  pockets,  to  see  whether  my 
trouble  is  likely  to  be  rewarded." 

Brown  explored  one  pocket  after  the  other.  He 
found  no  pocket-book,  for  Sam  did  not  possess  any. 
In  fact  he  had  never  felt  the  need  of  one  until  he 
appropriated  the  deacon's  money.  The  balance  of 
this  was  tucked  away  in  his  vest-pocket. 

"Six  dollars  and  ten  cents,"  said  Brown,  after 
counting  it.  "  It  isn't  much  of  a  haul,  that's  a  fact. 
I  thought  he  had  twice  as  much,  at  the  least.     Still," 


122  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

he  added  pMlosopMcally,  *'it's  better  than  nothing. 
I  shall  find  a  use  for  it  without  doubt." 

He  tucked  the  money  away  in  his  own  pocket,  and 
sat  on  the  edge  of  the  bedstead  in  meditation. 

"I  may  as  well  go  to  bed,"  he  reflected.  "He 
won't  find  out  his  loss  in  the  night,  and  in  the  morn- 
ing I  can  be  ofi"  before  he  is  up.  Even  if  I  oversleep 
m^'self,  I  can  brazen  it  out.  He's  only  a  green 
country  boy.  Probabl}"  he  won't  suspect  me,  and  if 
he  does  he  can  prove  nothing." 

He  did  not  undress,  but  lay  down  on  the  bed 
dressed  as  he  was.  He,  too,  was  soon  asleep,  and 
Sam,  unconscious  of  his  loss,  slept  on.  So  the 
money  was  doubly  stolen,  and  the  first  thief  sufiered 
at  the  hands  of  a  more  experienced  thief. 

The  sun  had  been  up  nearly  three  hours  the  next 
morning  before  Clarence  Brown  awoke.  As  he 
opened  his  eyes,  his  glance  fell  on  Sam  still  asleep, 
and  the  events  of  the  evening  previous  came  to  his 
mind. 

"I  must  be  up,  and  out  of  this,"  he  thought, 
"  before  the  young  greenhorn  wakes  up." 

Being  already  dressed,  with  the  exception  of  hia 


ADRIFT  IN^  THE   STREETS,  123 

coat,  lie  had  little  to  do  beyond  rising.  He  crept 
out  of  tlie  room  on  tiptoe,  and,  making  his  way  to  a 
restaurant  at  a  safe  distance,  sat  down  and  ordered  a 
good  breakfast  at  Sam's  expense. 

Meanwhile  Sam  slept  on  for  half  an  hour  more. 

Finally  he  opened  his  eyes,  and,  oblivious  of  his 
changed  circumstances,  was  surprised  that  he  had 
not  been  called  earlier.  But  a  single  glance  about 
the  shabby  room  recalled  to  his  memory  that  he  was 
now  beyond  the  deacon's  jurisdiction. 

"  I  am  in  New  York,"  he  reflected,  with  a  thrill  of 
joy.     ''  But  where  is  Mr.  Brown?  " 

He  looked  in  vain  for  his  companion,  but  no  sus- 
picion was  excited  in  his  mind. 

"He  didn't  want  to  wake  me  up,"  he  thought. 
*'  I  suppose  he  has  gone  to  his  business." 

He  stretched  himself,  and  lay  a  little  longer.  It 
was  a  pleasant  thought  that  there  was  no  stern  task- 
master to  force  him  up.  He  might  lie  as  long  as  he 
wanted  to,  —  till  noon,  if  he  chose.  Perhaps  he  might 
have  chosen,  but  the  claims  of  a  healthy  appetite 
asserted  themselves,  and  Sam  sprang  out  of  bed. 

"I'll  have  a  good  breakfast,"  he  said  to  himself, 


124  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

"  and  then  I  must  look  around  and  see  if  I  can't  find 
something  to  do  ;  my  money  will  soon  be  out." 

It  was  natural  that  he  should  have  felt  for  his 
money,  at  that  moment,  but  he  did  not.  No  sus- 
picion of  Mr.  Brown's  integrity  had  entered  his 
mind.  You  see  Sam  was  very  unsophisticated  at 
that  time,  and,  though  he  had  himself  committed  a 
theft,  he  did  not  suspect  the  honesty  of  others. 

' '  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  go  without  thanking 
Mr.  Brown,  as  he  don't  seem  to  be  here,"  he  re- 
flected. "  Perhaps  I  shall  see  him  somewhere  about 
the  streets.  I've  saved  a  dollar  anyway,  or  at  least 
seventj^-five  cents,"  he  added,  thinking  of  the  quarter 
he  had  lent  his  hospitable  entertainer  the  evening  be- 
fore. "Perhaps  he'll  let  me  sleep  here  again  to- 
night. It'll  be  a  help  to  me,  as  long  as  I  haven't  got 
anything  to  do  yet." 

Still  Sam  did  not  feel  for  his  money,  and  was  hap- 
pily unconscious  of  his  loss. 

He  opened  his  door,  and  found  his  way  downstairs 
into  the  street  without  difficult3^  The  halls  and 
staircases  looked  even  more  dingy  and  shabby  in  the 
daytime  than  they  had  done  in  the  evening.      "  It 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  125 

isn*t  a  very  nice  place  to  live,"  thought  Sam. 
*'  However,  I  suppose  Mr.  Brown  will  be  rich  when 
his  uncle  dies.  I  wish  he  was  rich  now ;  he  might 
give  me  a  place." 

"Shine  yer  boots?"  asked  a  small  knight  of  the 
brush. 

"No,"  said  Sam,  who  had  grown  economical; 
*'  they  don't  need  it." 

He  walked  on  for  five  minutes  or  more.  Presently 
he  came  to  an  eating-house.  He  knew  it  by  the 
printed  bills  of  fare  which  were  placarded  outside. 

"  Now,  I'll  have  some  breakfast,"  he  thought,  with 
satisfaction,  and  he  entered  confidently. 


126  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   ORs 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

BOUNCED  ! 

Sam  sat  down  at  a  table,  and  took  up  the  bill  of 
fare.  A  colored  waiter  stood  by,  and  awaited  his 
orders. 

"Bring  me  a  plate  of  beefsteak,  a  cup  of  coffee, 
and  some  tea-biscuit,"  said  Sam,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  of  fortune. 

*'  All  right,  sir,"  said  the  waiter. 

"After  all,  it's  pleasant  living  in  New  York," 
thought  Sam,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and 
awaited  in  pleasant  anticipation  the  fulfilment  of  his 
order.  "It's  different  from  livin'  at  the  deacon's. 
Here  a  feller  can  be  independent." 

"As  long  as  he  has  money,"  Sam  should  have 
added ;  but,  lilvc  some  business  men,  he  was  not  aware 
of  his  present  insolvency.  Ignorance  is  bliss,  some- 
times ;  and  it  is  doubtful  w^hether  our  hero  would 
have  eaten  his  breakfast  with  as  good  a  relish  when 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  127 

it  came,  if  he  had  known  that  he  had  not  a  cent  in  his 
pocket. 

Sam  was  soon  served,  and  he  soon  made  way  with 
the  articles  he  had  ordered.  You  can't  get  a  very 
liberal  supply  of  beefsteak  for  fifteen  cents,  which 
was  what  Sam  was  charged  for  his  meat.  He  felt  * 
hungry  still,  after  he  had  eaten  what  was  set  before 
him.  So  he  took  the  bill  of  fare  once  more,  and 
pored  over  its  well-filled  columns. 

"They  must  have  a  tremendous  big  kitchen  to 
cook  so  many  things,"  he  thought.  "  Wh}^,  there 
are  as  many  as  a  hundred.  Let  me  see — here's 
buckwheat  cakes,  ten  cents.     I  guess  I'll  have  some." 

"Anything  more,  sir?"  asked  the  waiter,  ap- 
proaching to  clear  away  the  dirty  dishes. 

"Buckwheat  cakes,  and  another  cup  of  coffee," 
ordered  Sam. 

"All  right,  sir." 

"They  treat  me  respectful,  here,"  thought  Sam. 
"  What  would  the  deacon  say  to  hear  me  called  sir? 
I  like  it.  ■  Folks  have  better  manners  in  the  cit}^  than 
in  the  country." 

This  was  rather  a  hasty  conclusion  on  the  part  of 


125  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

Sam,  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  had  occasion 
enough  to  change  his  mind. 

He  ate  the  buckwheat  cakes  with  a  relish,  and  felt 
tolerably  satisfied. 

'^  An^'thing  more,  sir  ?"  asked  the  waiter. 

Sam  was  about  to  say  no,  when  his  eje  rested  on 
that  ]Dortion  of  the  bill  devoted  to  pastrj^,  and  he 
changed  his  mind. 

*'  Bring  me  a  piece  of  mince-pie,"  he  said. 

Sam  was  sensible  that  he  was  ordering  brealdast 
beyond  his  means,  but  he  vaguely  resolved  that 
he  would  content  himself  with  a  small  dinner.  He 
reall}^  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  the  pie. 

At  last  it  was  eaten,  and  the  waiter  brought  him  a 
ticket,  bearing  the  x)rice  of  his  breakfast,  fifty  cents. 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  he  felt  in  his  vest-pocket  for 
his  mone3\  He  felt  in  vain.  Still  he  did  not  suspect 
his  loss. 

"  I  thought  I  put  it  in  my  vest-pocket,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "I  guess  I  made  a  mistake,  and  put  it  in 
some  other." 

He  felt  in  another  pocket,  and  still  another,  till 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  129 

he  had  explored  every  pocket  he  possessed,  and  still 
no  money. 

Sam  turned  pale,  and  his  heart  gave  a  sudden 
thump,  as  the  extent  of  his  misfortune  dawned  upon 
him.  It  was  not  alone  that  he  was  without  money  in 
a  strange  city,  but  he  had  eaten  rather  a  hearty  break- 
fast, which  he  was  unable  to  pay  for.  What  would 
they  think  of  him?  What  would  they  do  to  him? 
He  saw  it  all  now.  That  specious  stranger,  Clarence 
Brown,  had  robbed  him  in  his  sleep.  That  was  why 
he  had  invited  him  to  spend  the  night  in  his  room 
without  charge.  That  was  why  he  had  got  up  so 
early  and  stolen  out  without  his  knowledge,  after  he 
had  purloined  all  his  money. 

Sam  was  not  particularly  bashful ;  but  he  certainly 
felt  something  like  it,  as  he  wallvcd  up  to  the  cashier's 
desk.  A  man  stood  behind  it,  rather  stout,  and  on 
the  whole  not  benevolent  in  his  looks.  There  was  no 
softness  about  his  keen  business  face.  Sam  inferred 
with  a  sinking  heart  that  he  was  not  a  man  likely  to 
sympathize  with  him  in  his  misfortunes,  or  seem  to 
give  credence  to  them. 

Sam  stood  at  the  counter  waiting  while  the  pro- 


130  TnE    YOUNG   outlaw;    OHf 

prietor  was  making  change  for  anotlier  customer. 
He  was  considering  what  he  could  best  say  to  pro- 
pitiate his  creditor. 

"Now,  then,"  said  the  man  behind  the  counter,  a 
little  impatiently,  for  another  had  come  up  behind 
Sam,  "  Where's  your  ticket?" 

"  Here,  sir,"  said  Sam,  laying  it  on  the  counter. 

"Fifty  cents.  Pay  quick,  and  don't  keep  me 
waiting." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  sir,"  Sam  began,  faltering, 
"but  —  " 

"But  what!"  exclaimed  the  proprietor,  with  an 
ominous  scowl. 

"  I  can't  pay  you  now." 

"Can't  pay  me  now  !"  repeated  the  other,  angrily ; 
"  what  do  you  mean  ?  "       . 

"I've  lost  my  money,"  said  Sam,  feeling  more 
and  more  uncomfortable. 

By  this  time  the  patience  of  the  restaurant-keeper 
was  quite  gone. 

"What  business  had  you  to  come  in  here  and 
order  an  expensive  breakfast  when  j^ou  had  no 
money?"   he  demanded,  furiously. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  131 

"I  thought  I  had  some  money,"  said  Sam,  fer- 
vently wishing  himself  back  at  the  deacon's  for  the 
first  time  since  his  arrival  in  the  city. 

"How  could  you  think  you  had  some  when  you 
hadn't  any?" 

"  I  had  some  last  night,"  said  Sam,  eagerly ;  "  but 
I  slept  in  Mr.  Brown's  room,  and  he  must  have 
robbed  me  in  the  night." 

"That's  a  likely  story!"  sneered  the  proprietor. 
• '  What  do  you  think  of  it,  Mr.  Jones  ?  "  he  asked, 
turning  to  a  customer,  whom  he  knew  by  name. 

Mr.  Jones  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Too  thin  !  "  he  replied,  briefly. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  the  proprietor,  angrily. 
^'  This  boy's  evidently  a  beat." 

"A what?"  inquired  Sam,  who  had  not  been  in  the 
city  long  enough  to  understand  the  meaning  of  the 
term. 

"A  dead  beat;  but  you  don't  play  any  of  your 
games  on  me,  young  man.  I've  cut  my  eye-teeth, 
I  have.  You  don't  swindle  me  out  of  a  fift3'-cent 
breakfast  quite  so  easily.  Here,  John,  call  a  police- 
man." 


132  TRE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    021, 

"Oh,  don't  call  a  policeman!"  exclaimed  Sam, 
terror-stricken.  "It's  true,  every  Tvord  I've  told 
you.  I'm  from  the  country.  I  only  got  to  the  city 
yesterday,  and  I've  been  robbed  of  all  my  money, 
over  six  dollars.     I  hope  you'll  believe  me." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  you  saj"  said  the  res- 
taurant-keeper, harshly.  ' '  You  are  trying  to  come 
it  over  me.  I  dare  say  you've  been  round  the  streets 
half  your  life." 

"I  think  you  are  wrong,  Mr.  Chucks,"  said  another 
customer,  who  was  waiting  to  pay  his  bill.  "  He's 
got  a  country  look  about  him.  He  don't  look  like 
one  of  the  regular  street  boys.  Better  let  him  go. 
I  wouldn't  call  a  policeman." 

"I  ought  to,"  grumbled  the  pro]3rietor.  "Fancy 
his  impudence  in  ordering  a  fifty-cent  breakfast, 
when  he  hadn't  a  cent  to  pay  his  bill." 

' '  I  wouldn't  have  come  in,  if  I  had  known,"  said  Sam. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  said  the  man,  sharply,  "for  I 
don't  believe  it.  Do  you  think  I  can  afibrd  to  give 
you  breakfast  for  nothing  ?  " 

"  I'll  pay  you  as  soon  as  I  get  some  money,"  said 
Sam.     "  Only  don't  send  me  to  prison." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  133 

*'I  won't  give  you  in  charge  this  time,  though  I 
ought  to ;  but  I'll  give  you  something  to  settle  your 
breakfast.  Here,  Peter,  you  waited  on  this  young 
man,  didn't  you?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"He  hasn't  paid  for  his  breakfast,  and  pretends 
he  hasn't  got  any  money.     Bounce  Mm!" 

K  Sam  was  ignorant  of  the  meaning  of  the  word 
"bounce,"  he  was  soon  enlightened.  The  waiter 
seized  him  by  the  collar,  before  he  knew  what  was 
going  to  happen,  pushed  him  to  the  door,  and  then, 
lifting  his  foot  by  a  well-directed  kick,  landed  him 
across  the  sidewalk  into  the  street. 

This  proceeding  was  followed  by  derisive  laughter 
from  the  other  waiters  who  had  gathered  near  the 
door,  and  it  was  echoed  by  two  street  urchins  out- 
side, who  witnessed  Sam's  ignominous  exit  from  the 
restaurant. 

Sam  staggered  from  the  force  of  the  bouncing,  and 
felt  disgraced  and  humiliated  to  think  that  the  waiter 
who  had  been  so  respectful  and  attentive  should  have 
inflicted  upon  him  such  an  indignity,  which  he  had  no 
power  to  resent. 


134  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

''  I  wish  I  was  back  at  the  deacon's,"  he  thought 
bitterly. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  asked  one  of  the  boys  who 
had  witnessed  Sam's  humiliation,  not  sympathet- 
ically, but  in  a  tone  of  mockery. 

"  None  of  your  business  !  "  retorted  Sam,  savagely. 

"  He  feels  bad,  Mickey,"  said  the  other.  "  He's 
heard  bad  news,  and  that's  what  made  him  in  such  a 
hurry." 

Here  both  the  boys  laughed,  and  Sam  retorted 
angiily,  "I'll  make  you  feel  bad,  if  yon  aint 
careful." 

"  Hear  him  talk,  Mickey,  —  aint  he  smart?" 

"I'll  make  you  both  smart,"  said  Sam,  beginning 
to  roll  up  his  sleeves  ;  for  he  was  no  coward,  and  the 
bo3's  were  only  about  his  own  size. 

"  He  wants  to  bounce  us,  like  he  was  bounced  him- 
self," said  Pat  Eiley.     "  How  did  it  feel,  Johnny?" 

Sam  gave  chase,  but  his  tormentors  were  better  ac- 
quainted with  the  city  than  he,  and  he  did  not  suc- 
ceed in  catching  them.  Finally  he  gave  it  up,  and, 
sitting  down  on  a  convenient  door-step,  gave  himself 
up  to  melancholy  reflections. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  135 


CHAPTER    XV. 

ANT   WAY   TO    MAKE    a  LIVING. 

Boys  who  have  a  good  home  are  apt  to  undervalue 
it.  They  do  not  realize  the  comfort  of  ha^dng  their 
daily  wants  provided  for  without  ^ny  anxiety  on  their 
part.  They  are  apt  to  fancy  that  they  would  lUie  to 
go  out  into  the  great  world  to  seek  their  fortunes. 
Sometimes  it  may  be  necessary  and  expedient  to 
leave  the  safe  anchorage  of  home,  and  brave  the 
dangers  of  the  unknown  sea ;  but  no  boy  should  do 
this  without  his  parents'  consent,  nor  then,  without 
maldng  up  his  mind  that  he  will  need  all  his  courage 
and  all  his  resolution  to  obtain  success. 

Sam  found  himself  penniless  in  a  great  city,  and 
with  no  way  open,  that  he  could  think  of,  to  earn 
money.  Even  the  business  of  the  boot-black, 
humble  as  it  is,  required  a  small  capital  to  buy  a 
brush  and  box  of  blacking.  So,  too,  a  newsboy 
must  pay  for  his  papers  when  he  gets  them,  unless  he 


136  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OB, 

is  well  known.  So  Sam,  sitting  on  the  door-step, 
felt  that  he  was  in  a  tight  place.  Where  was  he  to 
get  his  dinner  from  ?  He  did  not  care  to  repeat  hia 
operation  of  the  morning,  for  it  was  not  pleasant  to 
be  ''bounced." 

' '  I  wonder  if  I  couldn't  get  a  chance  in  a  store," 
he  thought.  "  That  wouldn't  need  anj^  money. 
There  seems  to  be  a  lot  of  stores  in  the  citj.  I 
guess  there  must  be  a  place  for  me  somewhere." 

This  thought  encouraged  Sam.  He  rose  from  his 
lowly  seat,  and  determined  to  look  about  for  a  place. 
Presently  he  came  to  a  real-estate  office.  Sam  did 
not  understand  very  well  what  kind  of  a  business 
that  was,  but  on  the  window  a  piece  of  paper  was 
pasted,  on  which  was  written,  "  A  Boy  Wanted." 

''I  guess  I'll  go  in,"  thought  Sam.  "Maybe 
they'll  take  me." 

There  were  three  boys  ahead  of  him  ;  but  they  were 
not  very  eligible-looking  specimens.  So  they  were 
dismissed  with  small  ceremony,  and  Sam  was  beck- 
oned to  the  desk. 

* '  I  suppose  you  have  come  about  the  place,"  said 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  137 

a  man  with  black  wMskers,  and  a  pen  behind  his 
ear. 

^'  Yes,"  answered  Sam. 

*'  How  old  are  you?" 

"  Twelve." 

"  Eather  young.     Still  you  are  large  of  your  age." 

"I  am  pretty  strong,"  said  Sam,  anxious  to  suc- 
ceed in  his  application. 

"  There  isn't  any  work  to  be  done  that  requires 
strength,"  said  the  black- whiskered  man.  "How  is 
your  education  ?  "    • 

"  Pretty  good,"  said  Sam,  with  hesitation. 

''Do  you  live  in  the  city ? " 

"  Yes,  sii\" 

' '  With  your  parents  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     They  are  dead." 

"That  is  an  objection.  Perhaps,  however,  you 
live  with  an  aunt  or  uncle.  That  will  answer  as 
well." 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  determined  to  obviate  this 
objection.     "  I  live  with  my  uncle." 

"  Where  does  he  live  ?  " 

"  In  New  York,"  answered  Sam. 


138  TME    TOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

*' Don't  jon  understand  me?  I  mean  to  ask  the 
street  and  number." 

Sam  was  posed.  He  could  not  at  the  moment 
think  of  the  name  of  any  street  except  Broadway. 
But  it  would  not  do  to  hesitate.  So  he  said  promptly, 
"  He  lives  at  No.  656  Broadway." 

"What  is  his  business?"  inquired  the  black- 
whiskered  man. 

"  He  keeps  a  store,"  answered  Sam,  feeling  that  ho. 
was  getting  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mire. 

"  What  sort  of  a  store?  " 

"  A  grocery  store." 

"What,  at  656  Broadway?"  demanded  the  other, 
in  surprise.  "I  didn't  know  there  was  a  grocery 
store  in  that  neighborhood." 

"  Oh,  murder  !  "  thought  Sam,     "  I'm  found  out." 

He  made  no  answer,  because  he  could  not  think  of 
any. 

"  Wh}^  don't  your  father  give  joii  a  place  in  his 
own  store?"  asked  the  real-estate  agent,  with  some 
suspicion  in  his  tone. 

"  He's  got  all  the  help  he  wants,"  said  Sam, 
quickly. 


ADRIFT  IN^  THE   STREETS,  139 

Here  another  boy  entered  the  oflSce,  a  boy  neatly 
dressed,  and  intelligent  in  appearance. 

"  Sit  down  a  moment,"  said  the  agent  to  Sam, 
"  while  I  speak  with  this  other  lad." 

Sam  took  a  seat,  and  listened  to  the  conversation 
with  the  other  boy.  The  conclusion  of  the  matter 
was,  that  the  other  boy  was  engaged  and  Sam  was 
obliged  to  go  out  to  offer  his  services  in  some  other 
quarter. 

"  What  a  lot  of  lies  I  had  to  tell !  "  he  reflected. 
"  What's  the  use  of  their  asking  so  many  questions? 
I  don't  see.     I'll  have  to  try  somewhere  else." 

As  Sam  was  sauntering  along  he  was  accosted  by  a 
tall  man,  evidently  from  the  country. 

''  Boy,  can  you  direct  me  to  the  '  Tribune '  office?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Sam,  "but  it's  some  ways  from 
here.     It'll  be  worth  ten  cents  to  lead  you  there." 

The  gentleman  hesitated. 

"Well,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "I'U  give  it  to 
you." 

"  Will  you  give  it  to  me  now?  "  asked  Sam. 

"I  will  pay  you  when  you  have  done  "your 
work." 


140  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

"  The  reason  I  asked  was,  because  I  showed  a  man 
the  other  daj,  and  then  he  wouldn't  pay  me." 

"That  was  mean,"  said  the  stranger.  "I  hope 
you  don't  think  I  would  serve  you  so." 

*'0h,  no,  sir.  You're  a  gentleman,"  said  Sam. 
"  You  wouldn't  cheat  a  poor  boy  that  hasn't  had  any 
breakfast  this  mornin'." 

"Dear  me!  you  don't  say  so?"  ejaculated  the 
compassionate  stranger,  shocked  at  Sam's  fiction. 
"Here,  take  this  twenty-five  cents.  Do  j^ou  often 
have  to  go  without  your  breakfast  ?  " 

"Often,  sir,"  said  Sam,  unblushingly.  "It's 
hard  times  for  poor  boys  like  me." 

"There's  another  quarter,"  said  the  stranger,  his 
compassion  still  more  deeply  moved. 

Sam  did  feel  some  compunction  now,  for  he  was 
about  to  make  a  verj^  poor  return  for  the  kindness  of 
his  new  acquaintance.  The  fact  was,  he  had  not  the 
slightest  idea  where  the  "  Tribune"  office  was,  and  he 
had  therefore  undertaken  what  he  was  unable  to  per- 
form. But  he  had  gone  too  far  to  recede.  Besides, 
he  did  not  feel  prepared  to  give  up  the  money  which 
he  had  obtained  thi'ough  false  pretences.     So  counter- 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  141 

feiting  a  confidence  which  he  did  not  feel  he  led  the 
wa}^  up  Centre  street,  saving,  "  This  way,  sir.  "  I'll 
lead  you  right  to  the  office." 

"  I  never  was  at  the  office,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  though  I've  been  a  subscriber  to  the  weekly  '  Trib- 
une' for  ten  years." 

"  That's  a  good  while,"  said  Sam. 

*'It  is  indeed,  my  boy.  I  live  in  Illinois,  more 
than  a  thousand  miles  from  this  city.  Indeed,  I  have 
never  been  in  New  York  before." 

''Haven't  you?" 

"  No  ;  now  you,  I  suppose,  my  young  Mend,  know 
your  way  all  about  the  city." 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Sam,  in  an  off-hand  manner. 

"  If  I  had  more  time,  I  would  get  you  to  guide  me 
round  the  city,"  said  the  stranger. 

"  "Wouldn't  I  lead  you  a  wild-goose  chase,  old  gen- 
tleman?" thought  Sam.  "You'd  be  pretty  weU 
taken  in,  I  guess." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  go  away  to-night,"  continued  the 
old  gentleman,  "but  I  thought  I  would  renew  my 
subscription  to  the  '  Tribune '  before  I  went." 


142  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OB, 

"  All  right,  sir  ;  it's  a  nice  paper,"  said  Sam,  who 
had  never  read  a  line  in  the  "  Tribune." 

'^  So  I  think.     Are  we  almost  at  the  oflSce?" 

"  Almost,"  said  Sam.  "  K  you  don't  mind  waiting 
I'll  run  over  and  speak  to  my  cousin  a  minute." 

There  was  a  boot-black  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  It  struck  Sam,  who  did  not  like  to  deceive  so 
generous  a  patron,  that  he  could  obtain  the  informa- 
tion he  needed  of  this  bo}^ 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  the  '  Tribune'  office  is?" 
he  asked  hurriedly. 

The  boot-black  had  no  more  scruples  about  l^'ing 
than  Sam,  and  answered,  glibly,  pointing  to  the 
Tombs  prison,  a  little  farther  on,  "  Do  you  see  that 
big  stone  buildin'?" 

''  Yes,"  said  Sam. 

*' That's  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sam,  feeling  relieved,  and 
never,  doubting  the  correctness  of  this  statement. 

He  returned  to  the  stranger,  and  said,  cheerfully, 

''"We're  almost  there." 

''Is  that  boy  your  cousin?"  asked  his  acquaint- 
ance. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  143 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"  He  blacks  boots  for  a  living." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Does  be  do  weU  at  it?" 

"  Pretty  well." 

"  Did  you  ever  black  boots?" 

"  No,  sir,"  answered  Sam,  telling  tbe  truth  by  way 
of  variety. 

"That's  the  'Tribune'  office,"  said  Sam,  a  mo- 
ment later,  pointing  to  the  gloomy-looking  prison. 

"Is  it?"  echoed  the  stranger,  in  surprise. 
"■Really,  it's   a  very  massive   structure." 

"Yes,"  said  Sam,  mistaking  the  word  employed, 
"it's  very  massy." 

"  It  doesn't  look  much  like  a  newspaper  office." 

For  the  first  time  Sam  began  to  suspect  that  he 
had  been  deceived,  and  he  naturally  felt  in  a  hmiy 
to  get  away. 

"You  go  right  in,"  he  said,  confidently,  "and 
they'll  attend  to  you  inside.  Now  I'll  go  and  get 
some  breakfast." 

"  To  be  sure.     You  must  be  hungry." 


144  THE    rOUNG   OUTLAW;    OB, 

The  stranger  walked  up  the  massive  steps,  and 
Sam  hurried  away. 

"  I  wonder  what  place  that  is,  anyhow,"  he  said  to 
himself.     ''  Now  I've  got  money  enough  for  dinner." 

For  a  country  boy  Sam  was  getting  along  fast. 


ADEIFT  TN  THE  STREETS.  145 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

SA3I   MEETS    BROWN   AND    IS   UNHAPPY. 

JSTever  doubting  Sam's  assurance,  the  stranger 
entered  the  gloomy  building,  the  lower  part  of  which 
is  divided  into  court-rooms.  Out  of  one  of  these  a 
man  came,  to  whom  he  addi'essed  this  question : 
"Where  is  the  counting-room?" 

"  The  counting-room  !  "  repeated  the  man,  staring. 
"  There  isn't  any  here,  that  I  know  of." 

"I  want  to  subscribe  for  the  weekly  edition," 
explained  the  man  from  Illinois. 

' '  It  strikes  me  you're  a  w^ealdy  edition  of  a  man 
yom'self,"  thought  the  other.  "He  must  be  a 
lunatic,"  was  the  next  thought.  "I  may  as  well 
humor  him.'* 

"  Go  in  at  that  door,"  he  said. 

The   stranger   entered   as    directed,    and    at  once 

"'^cognized  it  as  a  court-room. 

"It  is  ver}^  singular  that  there  should  be  a  com't- 
10 


14:6  THE    YOUKG   OUTLAW;    OB, 

room  in  the  '  Tribune '  office,"  he  thought.  He  took 
a  seat,  and  whispered  to  a  man  at  his  side:  "Can 
you  tell  me  where  the  'Tribune'  office  is?" 

"Printing-house  Square,"  was  the  whispered  reply. 

"Where's  that?" 

"  Not  much  over  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  here." 

"The  bo}^  deceived  me,"  thought  the  stranger  in- 
dignantl}'^,  "and  I  gave  him  fift}^  cents  for  doing  it. 
He  must  be  a  young  rascal." 

"What  building  is  this?"  he  asked,  still  in  a 
whisper. 

"The  Tombs." 

"  What,  the  prison  ! " 

"  Yes  ;  didn't  jom  know  it?"  asked  the  informant, 
in  surprise. 

"  I  am  a  stranger  in  the  city,"  said  the  Illinois  man 
apologetically. 

"  Did  3^ou  want  to  go  to  the  '  Tribune'  office?" 

"  Yes  ;  I  wished  to  subscribe  for  the  paper." 

"I  am  going  that  way.  I  will  show  you  if  3"ou 
desire  it." 

"  Thank  jow.     I  shall  consider  it  a  favor." 

So  the  two  retraced  their  steps,  and  this  time  our 


ATiEIFT  IN  THE    STREETS,  147 

Illinois  friend  found  the  office  of  which  he  was  in 
quest.  He  came  near  finding  Sam  also,  for  as  he 
stood  in  front  of  French's  Hotel,  he  saw  his  recent  ac- 
quaintance approaching,  and  quickly  dodged  inside 
the  hotel  till  he  had  passed.  A  boot-black  to  whom 
he  had  been  speaking  followed  him  in  surprise. 

"I  say,  what's  up,  Johnny?"  he  asked.  "  Yer 
didn't  see  a  copp,  did  yer?" 

"No,  it's  that  man  that  just  went  by." 

"Who's  he?" 

"He's  the  man  Iran  away  from,"  said  Sam,  not 
caring  to  tell  the  truth. 

"What  would  he  do  if  he  should  catch  3'ou?" 
asked  the  boot-black,  with  curiosity. 

"  Lick  me,"  said  Sam,  laconically. 

"Then  you  did  right.  Is  he  going  to  stay  here 
long  ?  " 

"  No  ;  he's  going  away  to-day." 

"  Then  you're  safe.  You'd  better  go  the  other  way 
from  him." 

"So  I  will,"  said  Sam.  "Where's  the  Park  I've 
heard  so  much  about  ?  " 

"Up  that  way." 


148  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;  OMj 

"Is  it  far?" 

"  Four  or  five  miles." 

"  It's  a  long  way  to  walk." 

"  You  can  ride  for  five  cents." 

"Can  I?" 

"  Yes  ;  just  go  over  to  the  Astor  House,  and  take 
tlie  Sixth  avenue  cars,  and  they'll  take  you  there." 

Sam  had  intended  to  spend  his  entire  fifty  cents  in 
bu3'ing  dinner  when  the  time  came,  but  he  thought  he 
would  like  to  see  Central  Park.  Besides,  he  would 
be  safe  from  pursuit,  and  the  punishment  which  he 
felt  he  deserved.  Following  the  directions  of  his  boy 
friend,  he  entered  a  Sixth  avenue  car,  and  in  a  little 
less  than  an  hour  was  set  down  at  one  of  the  gates  of 
the  Park.  He  entered  with  a  number  of  others,  and 
followed  the  path  that  seemed  most  convenient,  com- 
ing out  at  last  at  the  lake.  Until  now  Sam  had  thought 
rather  slighting^  of  the  Park.  Green  fields  were  no 
novelty  to  him,  but  he  admired  the  lake  with  the 
boats  that  plied  over  its  surface  filled  with  lively  pas- 
sengers. He  would  have  invested  ten  cents  in  a  pas- 
sage ticket ;  but  he  felt  that  if  he  did  this,  he  must 
sacrifice  a  part  of  his  intended  dinner,  and  Sam  was 


ADRIFT  IN   THE   STREETS.  149 

growing  prudent.  He  wandered  about  the  Park  two 
or  three  hours,  sitting  down  at  times  on  the  benches 
that  are  to  be  found  here  and  there  for  the  conven- 
ience of  visitors.  He  felt  read}'^  to  go  back ;  but  it 
was  only  noon,  and  he  was  not  sure  but  he  might  fall 
in  with  the  gentleman  from  Illinois,  whom  he  had  left 
at  the  entrance  of  the  Tombs. 

He  was  destined  to  meet  an  acquaintance,  but  this 
time  it  was  some  one  that  had  cheated  him.  Looldng 
up  from  the  bench  on  which  he  was  seated,  he  saw 
his  host  of  the  preceding  night,  Mr.  Clarence  Brown, 
lounging  along,  smoking  a  cigar,  with  a  look  of  placid 
contentment  on  his  face. 

"  That  cigar  was  bought  with  my  money,"  thought 
Sam,  bitterty  ;  and  in  this  conclusion  he  was  right. 

Sam  jumped  from  his  seat,  and  advanced  to  meet 
his  enemy. 

"  Look  here,  Mr.  Brown !  " 

Clarence  Brown  started  as  he  saw  who  addressed 
him,  for  he  was  far  from  expecting  to  meet  Sam  here. 
He  saw  from  the  boy's  looks  that  he  was  suspected  of 
robbing  him,  and  decided  upon  his  course. 


150  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

''Oh,  it*s  3^ou,  is  it?"  he  said,  smiling.  "How 
do  you  like  the  Park?  " 

"Nevermind  about  that,"  said  Sam,  impatiently. 
"  I  want  my  money." 

Mr.  Brown  arched  his  eyes  in  surprise. 

"Really,  my  young  friend,  I  don't  comprehend 
you,"  he  said,  withdrawing  his  cigar  from  his  mouth. 
"  You  speak  as  if  I  owed  you  some  mone}^" 

"  Quit  fooling  !  "  said  Sam,  provoked  at  the  other's 
coolness.  "I  want  that  money  you  took  from  me 
while  I  was  asleep  last  night." 

"It  strilies  me  you  have  been  dreaming,"  said 
Brown,  composedly.  "  I  don't  know  anything  about 
your  money.     How  much  did  you  have  ?  " 

"  Nearly  seven  dollars." 

"  Ai^e  you  sure  you  had  it  when  j^ou  went  to  bed?" 

"  Yes.     I  kept  it  in  my  vest-pocket." 

"That  was  careless.  You  should  have  concealed 
it  somewhere.  I  would  have  kept  it  for  you  if  you 
had  asked  me." 

"  I  dare  sa}^  you  would,"  said  Sam,  with  withering 
sarcasm. 

"  Certainly,  I  wouldn't  refuse  so  small  a  favor." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  151 

"Are  you  sure  you  didn't  keep  it  forme?"  said 
Sam. 

"How  could  I,  when  you  didn't  give  it  to  me?" 
returned  the  other,  innocently. 

"  If  you  didn't  take  it,"  said  Sam,  rather  stag- 
gered by  the  other's  manner,  "  where  did  it  go  to?" 

"  I  don't  know,  of  course  ;  but  I  shouldn't  be  sur- 
prised if  it  fell  out  of  your  vest-pocket  among  the 
bed-clothes.     Did  3^ou  look ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  You  might  have  overlooked  it." 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Sam,  thoughtfully. 

He  began  to  think  he  had  suspected  Mr.  Brown 
unjustly.  Otherwise,  how  could  he  be  so  cool  about 
it? 

"  I  am  really  sorry  for  your  loss,"  said  Brown,  in  a 
tone  of  sympathy;  "  all  the  more  so,  because  I  am 
hard  up  myself.  I  wish  I  had  seven  dollars  to  lend 
you." 

"I  wish  jou  had,"  muttered  Sam.  "I  can't  get 
along  without  money." 

"  Did  you  have  any  breakfast?" 

"Yes." 


152  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OB, 

Sam  did  not  furnish  particulars,  not  liking  to 
acknowledge  the  treatment  he  had  received. 

"  Oh,  you'll  get  along,"  said  Brown,  cheerfully. 
"  Come  and  lodge  w^ith  me  again  to-night." 

"I  don't  know  but  what  I  will,"  said  Sam,  re- 
flecting that  he  had  no  money  to  lose  now,  as  he 
intended  to  spend  all  he  had  for  dinner. 

"  Sit  down  and  let  us  have  a  friendl}^  chat,"  said 
Clarence  Brown.  "Won't  jou  have  a  cigar?  I've 
got  an  extra  one." 

"  I  never  smoked,"  said  Sam. 

"  Then  it's  time  you  learned.  Shall  I  show  you 
how?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam. 

The  fact  is,  our  very  badlj^  behaved  hero  had  long 
cherished  a  desire  to  see  how  it  seemed  to  smoke  a 
cigar ;  but  in  the  country  he  had  never  had  the 
opportunity.  In  the  cit}^  he  was  master  of  his  own 
actions,  and  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  never 
have  a  better  opportunit}^  Hence  his  affirmative 
answer. 

Clarence  Brown  smiled  slightl}^  to  himself,  for  he 
anticipated  fun.     He  produced  the  cigar,  lighted   it 


ADItlFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  153 

by  Ms  own,  and  gave  Sam  directions  how  to  smoke. 
Sam  proved  an  apt  pupil,  and  was  soon  puflSng 
away  with  conscious  pride.  He  felt  himself  several 
years  older.  But  all  at  once  he  turned  pale,  and 
drew  the  cigar  from  his  mouth. 

''  What's  the  matter?"  asked  Brown,  demurety. 

"I  —  don't  —  know,"  gasped  Sam,  his  eyes  roll- 
ing ;  "  I  —  feel  —  sick." 

"  Do  you?     Don't  mind  it ;  it'll  pass  off." 

"  I  think  I'm  going  to  die,"  said  Sam,  in  a  hollow 
voice.     "  Does  smoking  ever  kill  people?" 

''Not  often,"  said  Brown,  soothingly. 

"  I  think  it's  goin'  to  kill  me,"  said  Sam,  mournfully. 

"  Lie  down  on  the  bench.    You'll  feel  better  soon." 

Sam  lay  down  on  his  back,  and  again  he  wished 
himself  safely  back  at  the  deacon's.  New  York 
seemed  to  him  a  very  dreadful  place.  His  head 
ached ;  his  stomach  was  out  of  tune,  and  he  felt  very 
unhappy. 

"Lie  here  a  little  while,  and  you'll  feel  better,*' 
said  his  companion.     "  I'll  be  back  soon." 

He  walked  awaj^  to  indulge  in  a  laugh  at  hi  a 
victim's  expense,  and  Sam  was  left  alone. 


154  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW;   OB^ 


CHAPTER    XYII. 

Till   BRADY. 

An  hour  passed,  and  Clarence  Brown  did  not 
reappear.  Pie  had  intended  to  do  so,  but  reflecting 
that  there  was  no  more  to  be  got  out  of  Sam  changed 
his  mind. 

Sam  lay  down  on  the  bench  for  some  time,  then 
raised  himself  to  a  sitting  posture.  He  did  not  feel 
so  sick  as  at  first,  but  his  head  ached  unpleasantly. 

"I  won't  smoke  any  more,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  I  didn't  think  it  would  make  me  feel  so  bad." 

I  am  sorry  to  say  that  Sam  did  not  keep  the 
resolution  he  then  made  ;  but  at  the  time  when  he  is 
first  introduced  to  the  reader,  in  the  first  chapter, 
had  become  a  confirmed  smoker. 

"Why  don't  Mr.  Brown  come  back?"  he  thought, 
after  the  lapse  of  an  hour. 

He  waited  half  an  hour  longer,  when  he  was 
brought  to  the  conviction  that  Brown  had  i^layed  him 


ABRIFT  IN"  THE   STREETS,  155 

false,  and  was  not  coming  Iback  at  all.  With  this 
conviction  his  original  suspicion  revived,  and  he 
made  up  his  mind  that  Brown  had  robbed  him  after 
all. 

"I'd  like  to  iDunch  his  head,"  thought  Sam, 
angril}'. 

It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  deacon,  from 
whom  the  money  was  originally  taken,  had  the  same 
right  to  punch  his  head.  As  I  have  said,  Sam's 
conscience  was  not  sensitive,  and  self-interest  blinded 
him  to  the  character  of  his  own  conduct. 

His  experience  in  smoking  had  given  him  a 
distaste  for  the  Park,  for  this  afternoon  at  least,  and 
he  made  his  way  to  the  horse-cars  determined  to 
retm-n.  It  did  make  him  feel  a  little  forlorn  to 
reflect  that  he  had  no  place  to  return  to ;  no  home 
but  the  streets.  He  had  not  yet  contracted  that 
vagabond  feeling  which  makes  even  them  seem 
homelike  to  the  hundreds  of  homeless  children  who 
wander  about  in  them  b}'  day  and  by  night. 

He  was  in  due  time  landed  at  the  Astor  House. 
It  was  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  he 
had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  breakfast.     But  for  the 


156  THE  YOuxG  outlaw;  OB, 

cigar,  he  would  have  had  a  hearty  appetite.  As  it 
was,  he  felt  faint,  and  thought  he  should  relish  some 
tea  and  toast.  He  made  his  way,  therefore,  to  a 
restaurant  in  Fulton  street,  between  Broadway  and 
Nassau  streets.  It  was  a  very  respectable  place, 
but  at  that  time  in  the  afternoon  there  were  few  at 
the  tables.  Sam  had  fort}^  cents  left.  He  found 
that  this  would  allow  him  to  bu}^  a  cup  of  tea,  a 
plate  of  beefsteak,  a  plate  of  toast,  and  a  piece  of  pie. 
He  disposed  of  them,  and  going  up  to  the  desk 
paid  his  bill.     Again  he  found  himself  penniless. 

"  I  wonder  where  I  am  going  to  sleep,"  he  thought. 
*' I  guess  I'll  ask  some  boot-blacks  where  thejMive. 
Thej  can't  afford  to  pa}^  much." 

The  tea  made  his  head  feel  better  ;  and,  though  he 
was  penniless,  he  began  to  feel  more  cheerful  than  an 
hour  before. 

He  wandered  about  till  he  got  tu'ed,  leaning 
against  a  building  sometimes.  He  began  to  feel 
ionel}^  He  knew  nobod}^  in  the  great  city  except 
Clarence  Brown,  whom  he  did  not  care  to  meet 
again,  and  the  boot-black  whose  acquaintance  he  had 
made  the  day  before. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  157 

"I  wish  I  had  some  other  boy  with  me,"  thought 
Sam  ;  "  somebody  I  knew.     It's  awful  lonesome." 

Sam  was  social  by  temperament,  and  looked  about 
him  to  see  if  he  could  not  make  some  one's  acquaint- 
ance. Sitting  on  the  same  bench  with  him  —  for  he 
was  in  City  Hall  Park  —  was  a  boy  of  about  his  own 
age  apparently.  To  him  Sam  determined  to  make 
friendly  overtures. 

"  What  is  your  name,  bo}^?  "  asked  Sam. 

The  other  boy  looked  round  at  him.  He  was  -very 
much  freckled,  and  had  a  sharp  look  which  made  him 
appear  preternaturally  old. 

"  What  do  3"ou  want  to  know  for?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  anybody  here.  I'd  like  to  get 
acquainted." 

The  street  boy  regarded  him  attentively  to  see  if 
he  were  in  earnest,  and  answered,  after  a  pause,  "  My 
name  is  Tim  Brady.     What's  jouys  ?  " 

"  Sam  Barker." 

' '  Where  do  you  live  ?  " 

"  Nowhere,"  said  Sam.  "  I  haven't  got  any  home, 
nor  any  money." 

*'  That's  nothing ! "  said  Tim.    "  No  more  have  I." 


158  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OR, 

"Haven't  3^011?"  said  Sam,  surprised.  "Then 
where  are  you  going  to  sleep  to-night  ? " 

"I  know  an  old  wagon,  up  an  alley,  where  I  can 
sleep  like  a  top." 

"Aint  you  afraid  of  taking  cold,  sleeping  out  of 
doors  ? "  asked  Sam,  who,  poor  as  he  had  alwaj^s 
been,  had  never  been  without  a  roof  to  cover  him. 

"  Take  cold  !  "  repeated  the  boy,  scornfully.  "I 
aint  a  baby.     I  don't  take  cold  in  the  summer." 

"  I  shouldn't  think  jow.  could  sleep  in  a  wagon." 

"Oh,  I  can  sleep  anywhere,"  said  Tim.  "It 
makes  no  difference  to  me  where  I  curl  up." 

' '  Is  there  room  enough  in  the  wagon  for  me  ?  " 
asked  Sam. 

"  Yes,  unless  some  other  chap  gets  ahead  of  us." 

"May I  go  with^^ou?" 

"  In  course  you  can." 

"  Suppose  w^e  find  somebody  else  ahead  of  us." 

"  Then  we'll  go  somewhere  else.  There's  plenty  of 
places.  I  sa}",  Johnny,  haven't  you  got  no  stamps 
at  all?" 

"Stamps!" 

"  Yes,  money.     Don't  you  know  what  stamps  is?" 


ADEIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  159 

"  No.     I  spent  my  last  cent  for  supper." 

''  If  you'd  got  thirty  cents  we'd  go  to  the  theatre." 

^' What  theatre?'' 
'   "The  Old  Bowery." 

''Is  it  good?" 

"You  bet!" 

"  Then  I  wish  I  had  money  enough  to  go.     I  nevfe. 
went  to  the  theatre  in  my  life." 

"  You  didn't !    Where  was  you  raised?  "  said  Tim, 
contemptuously. 

"  In  the  country." 

"  I  thought  so." 

"  The}^  don't  have  theatres  in  the  country." 

"  Then  I  wouldn't  live  there.     It  must  be  awful 
dull  there." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Sam.     "  That's  why  I  ran  away." 

"Did  3'ou   run   away?"    asked   Tim,    interested. 
"  Was  it  from  the  old  man?  " 

"  It  was  from  the  man  I  worked  for.     He  wanted 
me  to  work  all  the  time,  and  I  got  tired  of  it." 

"  What  sort  of  work  was  it?"  asked  Tim. 

"  It  was  on  a  farm.     I  had  to  hoe  potatoes,  split 
wood,  and  such  things." 


160  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OB, 

"I  wouldn't  like  it.  It's  a  good  deal  more  jolly 
bein'  in  the  cit}^" 

"  If  you've  onty  got  money  enough  to  get  along," 
added  Sam. 

"  Oh,  3^ou  can  earn  money." 

"How?"  asked  Sam,  eagerly. 

"  Different  ways." 

"  How  do  you  make  a  livin'  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  black  boots,  sometimes  I  sell 
papers,  then  again,  I  smash  baggage." 

"  What's  that?"  asked  Sam,  bewildered. 

"  Oh,  I  forgot,"  exclaimed  Tim.  "  You're  from 
the  country.  I  loaf  round  the  depots  and  steamboat 
landin's,  and  carry  carpet-bags  and  such  things  for 
pay." 

' '  Is  that  smashing  baggage  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure." 

"  I  could  do  that,"  said  Sam,  thoughtfully.  "  Can 
you  make  much  that  way?" 

"  'Pends  on  how  manj'  jobs  you  get,  and  whether 
the  cove's  liberal.  Wimmen's  the  wust.  Thej-'ll 
beat  a  chap  down  to  nothin',  if  they  can." 


ADRIFT  IN   THE   STREETS,  161 

**  How  much  do  you  get  anyway  for  carrying  a 
bundle?*' 

''  I  axes  fifty  cents,  and  generally  gets  a  quarter. 
The  wimmen  don't  want  to  pay  more'n  ten  cents.*' 

"I  guess  I'll  try  it  to-morrow,  if  you'll  tell  me 
where  to  go.'* 

"  You  can  go  along  of   me.     I'm  goin'   smashin' 
myself  to-morrer." 

"Thanliyou,"  said  Sam.     "I'm  glad  I  met  you. 
You  see  I  don't  know  much  about  the  city.*' 

''  Didn't  you  bring  no  money  with  you?*' 

"  Yes,  but  it  was  stolen.'* 

"  Was  your  pockets  picked?  ** 

"I'll  tell  you   about  it.      I  was  robbed  in  my 
sleep." 

So   Sam  told  the    story  of   his   adventures   with 
Clarence  Brown.     Tim  listened  attentively. 

"  lie  was  smart,  he  was,"  said  Tim,  approvingly. 

"  He's  a  rascal,"  said  Sam,  hotly,  who  did  not  rel- 
ish hearing  his  spoiler  praised. 

"  Course  he  is,  but  he*s  smart  too.     You  might  a 
knowed  he'd  do  it.*' 
11 


162  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OB, 

"How  should  I  know?  I  thought  he  was  a  kind 
man,  that  wanted  to  do  me  a  favor." 

Tim  burst  out  laughing. 

"  Aint  you  green,  though?"  he  remarked.  ''Oh 
my  eje,  but  you're  jolly  green." 

"Ami?"  said  Sam,  rather  offended.  "Is  every- 
body a  thief  in  New  York  ?  " 

"  Most  everybody,  if  they  gets  a  chance,"  said 
Tim,  coolly.     "  Didn't  you  ever  steal  yourself?  " 

Sam  colored.  He  had  temporarily  forgotten  the 
little  adventure  that  preceded  his  departm^e  from  his 
country  home.  After  all,  why  should  he  be  so 
angry  with  Clarence  Brown  for  doing  the  very  same 
tiling  he  had  done  himself?  Whj^  indeed?  But  Sam 
had  an  answer  ready.  The  deacon  did  not  need  the 
mone}'',  while  he  could  not  get  along  very  well 
without  it.  So  it  was  meaner  in  Clarence  Brown  to 
take  all  he  had,  than  in  him  to  take  what  the  deacon 
could  so  well  spare. 

I  hope  my  readers  understand  that  this  was  very 
flimsy  and  unsatisfactory  reasoning.  Stealing  is 
stealing,  under  whatever  circumstances.     At  any  rate 


ADRIFT  IN  TRB  STREETS.  163 

Sam  found  it  inconvenient  to  answer  Tim's  pointed 
question. 

They  talked  awMle  longer,  and  then  his  companion 
rose  from  the  bench. 

"Come  along,  Johnny,"  he  said.  "Let's  go  to 
roost." 

"All  right,"  said  Sam,  and  tho  two  left  the 
Park. 


164  TME    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OE, 


CHAPTER  XYIII. 


SAM  TURNS   IMPOSTOR. 


Tim  conducted  our  hero  to  an  alley-way,  not  far 
from  the  North  river,  in  which  an  old  wagon  had 
come  to  temporary  anchor. 

"  This  is  my  hotel,"  he  said.  ''  I  like  it  'cause  it's 
cheap.  They  don't  trouble  you  with  no  bills  here. 
Tumble  in." 

Tim,  without  further  ceremony,  laid  himself  down 
on  the  floor  of  the  wagon,  and  Sam  followed  his 
example.  There  is  everything  in  getting  used  to 
things,  and  that  is  where  Tim  had  the  advantage. 
Pie  did  not  mind  the  hardness  of  his  couch,  while 
Sam,  who  had  alwaj^s  been  accustomed  to  a  regular 
bed,  did.  He  moved  from  one  side  to  another,  and 
then  lay  on  his  back,  seeking  sleep  in  vain. 

"What's  up?"  muttered  Tim,  sleepily.  "Wliy 
don't  you  shut  jour  peepers?" 

"  The  boards  are  awful  hard,"  Sam  complained. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  165 

"It  aint  nothin'  when  you're  used  to  it,"  said 
Tim.     "  You  go  to  sleep,  and  you  won't  mind  it." 

"I  wisli  I  could,"  said  Sam,  turning  again. 

Finally  he  succeeded  in  getting  to  sleep,  but  not 
till  some  time  after  Ms  companion.  He  slept  pretty 
well,  however,  and  did  not  awaken  till,  at  six 
o'clock,  he  was  shaken  by  his  companion. 

"What's  the  matter?  Where  am  I?"  asked  Sam, 
feeling  bewildered  at  first. 

"Why,  here  you  are,  in  course,"  said  the  matter- 
of-fact  Tim.  "Did  you  thinly  you  was  in  the 
station-house  ?  " 

"No,  I  hope  not,"  answered  Sam.  "What  time 
Is  it?" 

"I  don't  know.  A  chap  stole  my  watch  in  the 
night.  I  guess  it's  after  six.  Have  you  got  any 
stamps  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Nor  I.  We've  got  to  stir  round,  and  earn  some 
breakfast." 

"How'Uwedoit?" 

"  We'll  go  down  to  the  pier,  and  wait  for  the  Bos- 


166  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

ton  boat.  Maybe  we'll  get  a  cbance  to  smash  some 
baggage." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Sam,  "  for  I'm  hungry." 

"  I'm  troubled  that  way  myself,"  said  Tim.  "  Come 
along." 

When  they  reached  the  pier,  they  found  a  number 
of  boys,  men,  and  hack-drivers  already  in  waiting. 
They  had  to  wait  about  half  an  hour,  when  they  saw 
the  great  steamer  slowly  approaching  the  wharf. 

Instantly  Tim  was  on  the  alert. 

"  When  they  begin  to  come  ashore,  you  must  go  in 
and  try  your  luck.     Just  do  as  I  do." 

This  Sam  resolved  to  do. 

A  tall  man  emerged  from  the  steamer,  bearing  a 
heavy  carpet-bag. 

*' Smash  yer  baggage?"  said  Tim. 

*'  No,  I  think  not.     I  can  carry  it  myself." 

"  I  haven't  had  any  breakfast,"  said  Tim,  screwing 
up  his  freckled  features  into  an  expression  of  patient 
suffering. 

"  Nor  I  either,"  said  the  stranger,  smiling. 

''  You've  got  money  to  buy  some,  and  I  haven't," 
said  Tim,  keeping  at  his  side. 


ADRIFT  IK  THE   STREETS.  167 

"Well,  you  may  carry  it,"  said  the  gentleman, 
good-naturedly. 

Tim  turned  half  round,  and  winked  at  Sam,  as 
much  as  to  say,  ' '  Did  3^ou  see  how  I  did  it  ?  " 

Sam  was  quick  enough  to  take  the  hint. 

' '  Smash  your  carpet-bag  ?  "  he  asked  of  a  middle- 
aged  lady,  imitating  as  closely  as  possible  Tim's  pro^ 
fessional  accent. 

' '  What  ?  "  asked  the  lady,  startled. 

"  She  don't  understand,"  thought  Sam.  "  Let  me 
carry  it  for  you,  ma'am." 

"  I  do  not  need  it.     I  am  going  to  take  a  cab." 

*'  Let  me  take  it  to  the  cab,"  persisted  Sam ;  but 
he  was  forestalled  by  a  hack-driver  who  had  heard 
the  lady's  remark. 

"Let  me  take  it,  ma'am,"  he  said,  thrusting  Sam 
aside.  "  I've  got  a  nice  carriage  just  outside.  Take 
you  anywhere  you  want  to  go." 

So  the  lady  was  carried  away,  and  Sam  had  to 
make  a  second  application.  This  time  he  addressed 
himself  to  a  gentleman  whose  little  daughter  walked 
by  his  side. 


168  THB    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

"No,"  said  the  gentleman ;  "the  carpet-bag  is 
Fmall.     I  don't  need  help." 

The  smallness  of  the  bag,  by  the  way,  was  one 
reason  why  Sam,  who  did  not  lilie  heavy  bundles, 
wanted  to  carry  it.  He  felt  that  it  was  time  to  iDrac- 
tise  on  the  stranger's  feelings. 

"  I  want  to  earn  some  money  to  buy  bread  for  my 
mother,"  he  whined,  in  a  very  creditable  manner, 
considering  how  inexperienced  he  was. 

This  attracted  the  attention  of  the  little  girl,  who, 
like  most  little  girls,  had  a  tender  and  compassionate 
heart. 

"  Is  your  mother  poor  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Very  poor,"  said  Sam.  "  She  hasn't  got  a  cent 
to  bu}''  bread  for  the  children." 

' '  Have  you  got  many  brothers  and  sisters  ?  "  asked 
the  little  girl,  her  voice  full  of  sympathy. 

"Five,"  answered  Sam,  piteously. 

"O  papa,"  said  the  little  girl,  "let  him  take 
your  carpet-bag.  Think  of  it,  his  mother  hasn't  gol 
anj^thing  to  eat.'* 

"Well,  Clara,"  said  her  father,  indulgentl}^,  "I 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  169 

suppose  I  must  gratify  you.  Here,  boj'^,  take  the 
bag,  and  carry  it  carefully." 

"  All  right,  sir,"  said  Sam,  cheerfully. 

••'I  guess  I  can  get  along,"  he  thought,  compla- 
cently.    "  That's  a  good  dodge." 

"  When  we  get  to  Broadway,  we'll  take  the  stage," 
said  the  gentleman.  "  Take  hold  of  my  hand,  tight, 
Clara,  while  we  cross  the  street." 

Clara  seemed  disposed  to  be  sociable,  and  entered 
into  conversation  with  the  young  baggage-smasher. 

"Are  your  brothers  and  sisters  younger  than 
you  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"  How  many  of  them  are  boj^s  ?  " 

"There's  two  boys  besides  me,  and  three  girls," 
said  Sam,  readily. 

"What  are  their  names?"  asked  Clara. 

"Why,"  answered  Sam,  hesitating  a  little, 
"there's  Tom  and  Jim  and  John,  and  Sarah  and 
Maggie." 

"I  don't  see  how  that  can  be,"  said  Clara, 
puzzled.  "  Just  now  jou  said  there  were  thi-ee  girls 
and  only  two  boys." 


170  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

"Did  I?"  said  Sam,  rather  abaslied.  ''I  didn't 
tliink  what  I  was  saying." 

"  Isn't  your  father  alive  ?  "  asked  the  little  girl. 

"No;  he's  dead." 

"  And  do  you  have  to  support  the  family?" 

*'  Yes  ;  except  what  mother  does." 

"What  does  she  do?" 

"  Oh,  she  goes  out  washing." 

"  Poor  boy,  I  suppose  you  have  a  hard  time." 

"Yes,"  said  Sam;  "some  days  we  don't  get 
anything  to  eat." 

"O  iDapa,  isn't  it  di-eadful?"  said  Clara,  her 
warm  little  heart  throbbing  with  sympathy. 

Her  father  was  less  credulous,  and  he  was  struck 
by  Sam's  hearty  appearance.  Certainl}^  he  looked 
ver}^  unlike  a  boy  who  did  not  have  enough  to  eat. 

"You  don't  look  as  if  j^ou  suffered  much  from 
hunger,  my  boy,"  said  he,  with  a  penetrating  look. 

"  I  had  a  good  dinner  yesterda}^,"  said  Sam.  "  A 
gentleman  gave  me  some  money  for  showing  him  the 
wa}^  to  the  '  Tribune '  oflSce." 

"  One  dinner  seems  to  have  done  you  a  gi-eat  deal 
of  good,"  said  the  man. 


ADRIFT  IK  THE   STREETS,  111 

"It  always  does  me  good,"  said  Sam,  and  here 
he  had  no  occasion  to  tell  a  falsehood. 

"I  hope  you  carried  some  of  the  money  home  to 
your  mother,  and  brothers  and  sisters." 

''Yes,  I  did;  I  bought  some  meat,  and  mother 
cooked  it.     We  don't  often  have  meat." 

"Perhaps  I  am  doing  the  boy  injustice,"  thought 
Mr.  Glenham,  for  this  was  his  name. 

As  for  Clara,  her  childish  sjanpathies  were  fully 
aroused. 

"  Papa,"  she  said,  "  maj^  I  give  this  poor  boy  the 
half  dollar  Aunt  Lucy  gave  me  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  had  arranged  some  way  of  spend- 
ing it,  Clara." 

"  So  I  had,  papa ;  but  Pd  rather  give  it  to  this 
poor  boy." 

"  You  may  do  as  you  like,  my  darling,"  said  her 
father,  tenderly. 

"  Here,  poor  boy,  take  this  home  to  your  mother," 
said  Clara. 

My  readers  have  probably  inferred  already  that 
Sam  was  not  a  boy  of  very  high  principles,  but  I 


172  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OH, 

must  do  him  the  justice  to  say  that  he  felt  ashamed 
to  take  the  money  tendered  him  by  the  little  girl 
upon  whom  he  had  imposed  by  his  false  story. 

*'I  don't  like  to  take  your  money,"  he  said, 
hanging  back. 

"  But  I  want  jou  to,"  said  Clara,  eagerly.  "  I'd 
a  great  deal  rather  your  mother  would  have  it." 

*'You  may  take  it,"  said  Mr.  Glenham,  who  was 
disposed  to  regard  Sam  with  greater  favor,  on 
account  of  the  reluctance  he  exhibited  to  profit  by 
Clara's  compassion. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sam,  no  longer  withholding 
his  hand.     "  You  are  very  kind." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  Broadway,  and 
Sam  delivered  up  the  bag. 

Mr.  Glenham  handed  him  a  quarter. 

"  That  is  for  your  trouble,"  he  said. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

A  Broadway  stage  came  up,  and  they  both  were 
lost  to  view. 

Sam  was  in  good  spirits  over  his  good  fortune. 

"  Seventy-five     cents ! "     he     said    to     himself. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STBEETS.  173 

"That's  what  I  call  luck.  I  don't  believe  Tim's 
done  so  well.  It  aint  so  hard  to  make  your  living  in 
New  York,  after  all.  I  guess  I'll  go  an'^  i^t  some 
breakfast," 


174  THE    YOUNQ   OUTLAW;   OJSy 


CHAPTER    XIX. 


HOW  SAM  FARED. 


On  the  strength  of  his  good  luck,  Sam  provided 
himself  with  a  good  brealrfast,  which  cost  him  forty 
cents.  He  felt  pretty  sure  of  earning  something 
more  dming  the  day  to  add  to  the  remaining  thirty- 
five.  But  Fortune  is  capricious,  and  our  hero  found 
all  his  offers  of  service  firmly  refused.  He  tried 
again  to  excite  compassion  by  his  fictitious  story  of  a 
starving  family  at  home  ;  but  his  appeals  were  made 
to  the  flinty-hearted  or  the  incredulous.  So,  about 
two  o'clock,  he  went  to  dinner,  and  spent  the  remain- 
der of  his  monej^ 

Again  he  spent  the  night  with  Tim  in  the  wagon, 
and  again  in  the  morning  he  set  out  to  earn  his 
brealifast.  But  luck  was  against  him.  People 
insisted  on  carrying  their  own  carpet-bags,  to  the 
great  detriment  of  the  baggage-smashing  business. 
Tim  was   no  luckier   than  Sam.     About  ten  o'clock 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  175 

they  were  walldng  despondently  through  a  side 
street,  discussing  ways  and  means. 

"  I'm  awful  hungr}^,  Tim,"  said  Sam,  mom'nfully. 

"  So  am  I,  3^ou  bet ! " 

''I  wouldn't  mind  if  I  had  a  couple  of  apples," 
said  Sam,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  an  old  woman's  apple- 
stand.     "  Wouldn't  she  trust?  " 

"  Not  much,"  said  Tim.  "  You  try  her,  if  you 
want  to." 

*'  I  will,"  said  Sam,  desperately. 

The  two  boys  approached  the  apple-stand. 

'*  I  say,"  said  Sam  to  the  wrinkled  old  woman  who 
presided  over  it,  ' '  how  do  jovl  sell  your  apples  ?  " 

"A  penny  a  piece,"  she  answered,  in  a  cracked 
voice.     ' '  Is  that  cheap  enough  for  ye  ?  " 

"  I'll  take  five  — ,"  said  Sam. 

The  old  woman  began  eagerly  to  pick  out  the 
required  number,  but  stopped  short  when  he  finished 
the  sentence,  —  "  if  ^'^ou'll  trust  me  till  afternoon." 

"Is  it  trust  ye?"  she  ejaculated  suspiciously. 
"  ISio  farther  tlian  I  can  see  yer.  I'm  up  to  your 
tricks,  you  young  spalpeen,  thryin'  to  chate  a  poor 
widder  out  of  her  money." 


176  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OS, 

"I'll  pay  you  sure,"  said  Sam,  "but  I  haven't 
earned  anything  yet  to-day." 

"  Then  it's  I  that  can't  be  sup|)ortin'  a  big,  strong 
boy  like  you.  Go  away  and  come  back,  whin 
you've  got  money." 

Here  Tim  broke  in. 

"  My  Mend  always  pays  his  bills,"  he  said. 
"  You  needn't  be  afraid  to  trust  him." 

"  And  who  are  you?"  asked  the  old  woman.  "I 
don't  know  jon,  and  I  can't  take  your  word.  You're 
tryin'  the  two  of  you  to  swindle  a  poor  widder." 

"My  father's  an  alderman,"  said  Tim,  giving  the 
wink  to  Sam.  * 

"Is  he  now?  Thin,  let  him  lind  your  friend 
money,  and  don't  ask  a  poor  woman  to  trust." 

"Well,  I  would,  but  he's  gone  to  Washington  on 
business." 

"  Thin,  go  after  him,  and  lave  me  alone.  I  don't 
want  no  spalpeens  lilvc  you  round  my  apple-stand." 

"  Look  here,  old  woman,  I'll  have  you  arrested  for 
eallin'  me  names.  Come  away,  Sam ;  her  apples  are 
rotten  anyhow." 

The  old  woman  began  to  berate  them  soundly, 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  Ill 

indignant  at  this  attack  upon  her  wares ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  it  the  two  boys  wallied  off. 

"We  didn't  make  much/*  said  Sam,  "  I'm  awful 
hungry.'' 

"  Take  that,  then,"  said  Tim,  pulling  an  apple  out 
of  his  ]DOcket. 

Sam  opened  his  eyes. 

"How  did  you  get  it?"  he  asked  in  astonish- 
ment. 

Tim  put  his  tongue  in  his  cheek. 

"I  took  it  when  you  were  talkin'  to  the  ould 
woman,"  he  answered  ;  "  and  here's  another." 

So  sa3dng  he  produced  a  companion  apple,  and 
made  a  vigorous  onslaught  upon  it,  Sam  following 
suit. 

"  I  don't  see  how  you  could  do  it,"  said  Sam, 
admiringly,  "  and  she  looking  on  all  the  time." 

"  It's  easy  enough  when  you  know  how,"  said  Tim, 
complacently. 

"  She'd  catch  me,  sure." 

"  Likely  she  would  ;  you  aint  used  to  it.^' 

Sam  ought  to  have  felt  uneasy  at  aj)propriating  the 

result  of  a  theft ;   hut  his  conscience  was  an  easy 
12 


178  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OB, 

one,  and  lie  felt  liungiy.  So  he  made  short  work  of 
the  apple,  and  wished  for  more. 

"  I  wish  you'd  taken  two  apiece,"  he  said. 

"I  couldn't,"  said  Tim.  "She'd  have  seen  'em 
stickin'  out  of  my  pocket,  and  called  a  copp." 

"One's  better  than  none;  I  feel  a  little  better," 
said  Sam,  philosophically.  "  I  'spose  it's  stealing, 
though." 

"Oh,  what's  the  odds?  She'll  never  miss  *em. 
Come  along." 

In  the  course  of  the  forenoon  Sam  managed  to  earn 
ten  cents,  and  was  forced  to  content  himself  with  a 
very  economical  dinner.  There  was  a  place  on  Ann 
street,  where,  for  this  small  sum,  a  plate  of  meat  and 
a  potato  were  furnished,  but  enough  only  to  whet  the 
appetite  of  a  hearty  boy  lil^e  Sam.  A  suspicion  did 
enter  his  mind  as  he  rose  from  the  table  penniless 
once  more,  and  his  appetite  still  unsatisfied,  that  he 
had  bought  his  liberty  dearly,  if  his  affairs  did  not 
improve.  In  the  country  he  had  enough  to  eat,  a 
good  bed  to  sleep  in,  and  no  care  or  anxiety,  while  he 
was  not  overworked.  Here  there  was  constant 
anxiety,  and  he  never  knew,  when  he  rose  in  the 


ADRIFT  IN  TBE  STREETS.  179 

morning,  where  Ms  dinner  was  to  come  from,  or 
whether  he  would  be  able  to  buy  one.  Still  there 
was  a  fascination  in  the  free,  lawless  life,  and  if  he 
could  only  be  sure  of  making  even  fifty  cents  a  day 
he  would  probably  have  preferred  it. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  describe  Sam*s  life  in  detail 
for  the  next  month.  He  and  Tim  were  constant 
companions ;  and  under  Tim's  instruction  he  was 
rapidly  acquiring  the  peculiar  education  of  a  street 
vagabond.  Of  his  employments  in  that  brief  period 
it  would  be  difficult  to  give  a  complete  list.  At  one 
time  he  blacked  boots  for  another  boy,  to  whom  he 
paid  half  his  receipts,  in  return  for  the  use  of  the  bos 
and  blacking.  But  Sam  was  detected  b}^  his  em- 
plo^^er  in  rendering  a  false  account,  and  was  thrown 
upon  his  own  resources  again.  It  would  have  been 
much  more  to  his  interest  to  have  a  blacking-brush 
and  box  of  his  own ;  but  whenever  Sam  had  capital 
enough  he  preferred  to  spend  it  for  a  good  dinner,  so 
there  did  not  seem  much  chance  of  his  getting  ahead. 
He  had,  before  this  time,  been  introduced  to  the 
Newsboj^s'  Lodging  House,  where  he  was  interro- 
gated about  his   past  life    by  the    superintendent. 


180  TRE   TOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR^ 

Sam  was  obliged  to  have  recourse  to  Ms  imagiuation 
in  reply,  feeling  that  if  he  spoke  the  truth  he  would 
be  liable  to  be  returned  to  his  country  home. 

"Are  your  parents  living?"  inquired  Mr. 
O'Connor. 

"  No,"  said  Sam,  telling  the  truth  this  time. 

"  When  did  they  die?  " 

"Two  years  ago." 

"  Did  they  die  in  New  York?  " 

"Yes,  sir.  They  died  of  small-pox,"  volunteered 
Sam. 

"And  have  you  been  supporting  yourself  since 
then?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"How  does  it  happen  that  you  have  not  been 
round  here  before  ?  " 

"  I  was  living  with  my  uncle,"  answered  Sam, 
hesitating. 

"  Why  have  you  left  him?  " 

"  He  didn't  treat  me  well." 

"  Perhaps  you  didn't  behave  well." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  did." 

"  What  is  your  uncle's  name?" 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  181 

*'  James  Cooper." 

*'  Where  does  he  live,  —  in  what  street?  " 

"  He's  moved  away  from  the  city  now,"  said  Sam, 
feeling  that  he  must  put  a  stop  to  these  inconvenient 
inquiries. 

So  Sam  was  admitted  to  the  privileges  of  the 
lodging-house.  Now,  he  found  it  much  easier  to  get 
along.  For  eighteen  cents  a  day  he  was  provided 
with  lodging,  brealvfast  and  supper,  and  it  w?b  not 
often  that  he  could  not  obtain  as  much  as  that. 
"When  he  could  earn  enough  more  to  buy  a  ' '  square 
meal"  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  a  fifteen-cent 
ticket  to  the  pit  of  the  Old  Bowery  theatre  in  the 
evening,  he  felt  happy.  He  was  fairly  adrift  in  the 
streets  of  the  great  city,  and  his  future  prospects  did 
not  look  very  brilliant.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say 
that  in  a  moral  point  of  view  he  had  deteriorated 
rather  than  improved.  In  fact,  he  was  fast  devel- 
oping into  a  social  outlaw,  with  no  particular  scruples 
against  lying  or  stealing.  One  thing  may  be  said  in 
his  favor,  he  never  made  use  of  his  strength  to 
oppress  a  3"ounger  boy.  On  the  whole,  he  was  good- 
natured,   and   not   at   all  brutal.      He  had  on   one 


182  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OS, 

occasion  interfered  successfully  to  protect  a  3^oung 
boy  from  one  of  greater  strength  who  was  beating 
Mm.  I  like  to  mention  this,  because  I  do  not  lilvc  to 
have  it  supposed  that  Sam  was  wholly  bad. 

We  will  now  advance  the  story  some  months,  and 
see  what  they  have  done  for  Sam. 

To  begin  with,  they  have  not  improved  his  ward- 
robe. "When  he  first  came  to  the  city  he  was  neatly 
though  coarsely  dressed  ;  now  his  clothes  hang  in  rags 
about  him,  and,  moreover,  they  are  begrimed  with 
mud  and  grease.  His  straw  hat  and  he  have  some 
time  since  parted  company,  and  he  now  wears  a 
gi'easy  article  which  he  picked  up  at  a  second-hand 
store  in  Baxter  street  for  twenty-five  cents.  If  Sam 
were  troubled  with  vanity,  he  might  feel  disturbed  by 
his  disreputable  condition ;  but  as  he  sees  plenty  of 
other  boys  of  his  own  class  no  better  di'essed,  he 
thinks  very  little  about  it.  Such  as  they  are,  his 
clothes  are  getting  too  small  for  him,  for  Sam  has 
grown  a  couple  of  inches  since  he  came  to  the  city. 

Such  was  our  hero's  appearance  when  one  day  he 
leaned  against  a  building  on  Broadway,  and  looked 
lazily  at  the  vehicles  passing,  wishing  vaguely  that 


ADEIFT  IN  THE  STBEETH.  188 

he  liaci  enough  money  to  buy  a  square  meal.  A 
Broadway  stage  was  passing  at  the  time.  A  small 
man,  whose  wrinkled  face  indicated  that  he  was  over 
sixty,  attempted  to  descend  from  the  stage  while  in 
motion.  In  some  vay  he  lost  his  footing,  and,  falling, 
managed  to  sprain  his  ankle,  his  hat  falling  off  and 
rolling  along  on  the  parement. 

Sam,  who  was  always  on  the  lookout  for  chances, 
here  saw  an  opening.  He  dashed  forward,  lifted  the 
old  gentleman  to  his  feet,  and  ran  after  his  hat,  and 
r^tored  it. 

"  Are  you  hm^t?"  he  asked. 

*'  I  think  I  have  sprained  my  anlde.  Help  me  up- 
stairs to  my  office,"  said  the  old  man. 

He  pointed  to  a  staircase  leading  up  from  the  side- 
walk. 

**  All  right,"  said  Sam.     "  Lean  on  me." 


184  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR^ 


CHAPTEE    XX. 

SAM   GETS    INTO   A   NEW   BUSINESS. 

Sam  helped  the  old  man  np  two  flights  of  stairs. 

*' Shall  we  go  any  farther?"  he  asked. 

"No;  that's  my  office,"  said  his  companion, 
pointing  to  a  door,  over  which  was  the  number  10. 
From  his  pocket  he  di'ew  a  ke}^,  and  opened  the  door. 
Sam  entered  with  him.  The  room  was  small.  One 
corner  was  partitioned  off  for  an  inner  office.  Inside 
was  a  chair,  something  like  a  barber's  chair,  and  a 
table  covered  with  instruments.  Sam's  curiosity  was 
aroused.  He  wondered  what  sort  of  business  was 
carried  on  here.  He  also  wondered  whether  he 
would  get  an^'thing  for  his  trouble. 

"If  3^ou  don't  want  me  anj'  longer  I'll  go,"  he 
said,  by  way  of  a  delicate  hint. 

"  Stop  a  minute,"  said  the  old  man,  who  had 
limped  to  a  sofa  in  the  outer  office,  and  sat  down. 


ADRIFT  IK  THE   STREETS,  185 

*'I  guess  I'll  get  something,"  thought  Sam,  cheer- 
fully complying  with  the  request. 

"  What  do  3^ou  do  for  a  living?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

"Sometimes  I  black  boots,  sometimes  I  sell 
papers,  —  anything  that'll  pay." 

"  What  are  you  doing  now?  " 

"Nothing.     Business  aint  good." 

' '  Would  you  like  something  to  do  ?  " 

Sam  gave  a  glance  into  the  office,  and  answered 
dubiously,  "Yes."  He  was  not  at  all  clear  about 
the  nature  of  the  employment  likely  to  be  offered. 

"  Then  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  a  job.  Do  you 
know  my  business  ?  " 

"No,  sir." 

"I'm  a  corn-doctor  —  3'ou've  heard  of  Dr.  Felix 
Graham,  the  celebrated  corn-doctor,  haven't  you?" 
said  the  old  man,  complacently. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam,  thinking  that  this  was  the 
answer  expected. 

"  I  am  Dr.  Graham,"  said  the  old  man,  proudly. 

"  Are  3^ou?  "  said  Sam  in  some  curiosity. 

"  Yes.  Now  I'll  tell  you  what  I  want  you  to  do. 
Go  and  bring  me  that  pile  of  circulars." 


186  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR^ 

He  pointed  to  a  pile  of  papers  on  the  floor  in  the 
corner. 

Sam  brought  them  as  directed. 

"  Can  you  read  ? '''  asked  the  doctor. 

"Yes,  sir,  a  little." 

"  Kead  that  circular." 

Sam  read  as  follows  :  — 

"DE.  FELIX  GEAHAM, 

Chiropodist. 

Corns  and  bunions  cured  without  pain. 

Satisfaction  guaranteed. 

Broadway,  Eoom   10." 

Sam  bungled  over  the  word  chiropodist,  but  was 
put  right  by  the  doctor. 

"  I  want  a  boy  to  stand  at  the  door,  and  distribute 
these  circulars,"  said  Dr.  Graham.  "•  Can  you  do 
it?" 

'•'•  Of  course  I  can,"  said  Sam.  "  What  pay  will  I 
get?" 

*'  Ten  cents  a  hundred ; "  said  the  doctor,  "but  you 
mustn't  do  as  my  last  boy  did." 

"  How  did  he  do?"  asked  Sam. 


ADRIFT  JZV  THE   STREETS,  187 

''  He  was  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  them  that  he 
gave  half  a  dozen  away  at  a  time.  I  caught  him  in 
it.     He  wanted  to  earn  money  too  fast.'* 

*'  He  was  smart,"  said  Sam,  with  a  grin. 

*'I  don't  like  that  kind  of  smartness,"  said  the 
doctor,  sharply.  "  I  want  you  to  serve  me  faith- 
fully." 

"  So  I  will,"  said  Sam. 

"You  needn't  give  to  everybody.  There  isn't 
much  use  in  giving  to  children." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"But  if  you  see  any  one  walking  as  if  he  had 
corns,  be  sure  to  hand  him  one." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  Now  count  off  a  hundred  of  the  circulars,  and  go 
downstairs." 

"All  right,  sir." 

This  was  the  first  regular  employment  Sam  had 
obtained,  and  he  felt  rather  important.  He  resolved 
to  acquit  himself  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  doctor. 
In  his  zeal  he  even  determined  to  improve  upon  his 
instructions. 

He  had  no  sooner  taken  his  stand  than  he  saw  a 


188  THE    YOUNG   outlaw;   OB. 

gentleman  and  lady  approacliing.  They  were  youngs 
and,  being  engaged,  were  indulging  in  conversation 
more  interesting  to  themselves  than  any  one  else. 
The  gentleman  had  on  a  pair  of  tight  boots,  and  from 
his  stj'le  of  walking  Sam  concluded  that  he  was  2, 
suitable  customer. 

''Here,  sir,"  said  he,  pressing  a  circular  into  the 
young  man's  gloved  hand. 

"  "What's  that?"  asked  the  young  man.  Then, 
glancing  at  it,  he  showed  it  with  a  laugh  to  the  j^oung 
lady. 

"  Look  here,  boy,"  he  said  tui'ning  to  Sam,  "  what 
made  you  give  me  this?" 

"You  wallved  as  if  you'd  got  corns,"  said  Sam, 
honestly.  "Walk  right  up,  and  Dr.  Graham  will 
cure  'em  in  a  jiffy." 

' '  Perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  is  to  become  of  this 
young  lady  while  I  go  up,  Johnny? " 

"  Maj^be  she's  got  corns  too,"  said  Sam.  "  She 
can  go  up  too." 

Both  the  lady  and  gentleman  laughed  comnilsively, 
considerably  to  Sam's  surprise,  for  he  was  not  aware 
that  he  had  said  anything  unusual  or  funny. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  189 

"  SlialJ  we  go  up,  Eliza?"  asked  the  young  man. 

The  only  answer  was  a  laugh,  and  they  passed  on. 

The  next  one  who  attracted  Sam's  attention  was  an 
elderly  maiden  lady. 

"Have  you  got  corns,  ma'am?"  asked  Sam, 
eagerly. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  the  lady  was  a  little 
deaf,  and  did  not  understand  Sam's  question. 
Unfortunately  for  herself,  she  stopped  short,  and 
inquired,  "What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  guess  she's  hard  of  hearing,"  Sam  concluded, 
and  raising  his  voice  loud  enough  to  be  heard  across 
the  street,  he  repeated  his   question:    "Have  you 

GOT  CORNS,  »IA'aM?" 

At  the  same  time  he  thrust  a  circular  into  the  hand 
of  the  astonished  and  mortified  lady. 

Two  school-girls,  just  behind,  heard  the  question, 
and  laughed  heartily.  The  offended  lady  dropped 
the  paper  as  if  it  were  contamination,  and  sailed  by, 
her  sallow  face  red  with  anger. 

"That's  funny,"  thought   Sam.     "I  don't  know 

what's  got  into  all  the  people.     Seems  to  me  they're 

ashamed  of  havin'  corns." 
0 


190  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

The  next  half-dozen  took  circulars,  mechanically 
glanced  at  them,  and  dropped  them  indifferentl3^ 

"  Guess  they  aint  got  corns,"  thought  the  observ- 
ing Sam. 

Bj^  and  by  a  countrjonan  came  along,  and  into  his 
hand  Sam  ]Dut  the  circular. 

"  What's  this?"  he  asked. 

''It's  corns.  Just  go  upstairs,  and  the  doctor'll 
cure  'em  less'n  no  time." 

"Wal,  I  have  got  two,"  said  the  countryman. 
*'They  hurt  like  time  too.  What  does  this  doctor 
charge  ? " 

Sam  did  not  know,  but  he  was  not  the  boy  to  allow 
his  ignorance  to  appear. 

"Ten  cents  apiece,"  he  answered. 

"That's  cheap  enough,  smywaj"  said  he.  "I've 
got  a  good  mind  to  go  up.     Where  is  it?" 

"Come  along.  I'll  show  you,"  said  Sam, 
promptly. 

"I  guess  I  may  as  well.  Are  you  sure  he  can 
cure 'em?" 

"  I  ought  to  know,"  said  Sam.     "  I  had  one  about 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS ,  191 

as  big  as  a  marble  on  my  big  toe.  Tiie  doctor,  lie 
cured  it  in  a  minute." 

"  You  don't  say !     He  must  be  pooty  good." 

"  You  bet !  He's  the  great  Dr.  Graham.  Every- 
body's beard  of  Mm." 

By  such  convincing  assurances  the  man's  faith 
was  increased.  He  followed  Sam  into  the  doctor's 
office. 

"Here,"  said  Sam,  " I've  brought  you  a  customer, 
Dr.  Graham.  I  told  him  you  could  cure  his  corns  in 
a  jiffy." 

The  doctor  smiled  approvingly. 

"You  are  right  there.  My  friend,  sit  down  in 
this  chair." 

"You  won't  hurt,  will  you,  doctor?"  asked  the 
customer,  glancing  with  a  little  alarm  at  the  table 
with  its  instruments. 

"  Oh,  no,  you'll  scarce^  feel  it." 

Sam  returned  to  his  post,  and  began  to  distribute 
handbills  once  more. 

About  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  was  assailed  by 
an  angry  voice.  Looking  up,  he  saw  the  customer  he 
had  sent  upstairs. 


192  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OB, 

^'  Look  liere,  boy,"  he  said,  angrily  ;  "  you  told  me 
a  lie." 

"  How  did  I?  "  asked  Sam. 

"You  told  me  tlie  doctor  only  charged  ten  cents 
for  each  corn.  Jerusalem !  he  made  me  fork  out  a 
dollar." 

Sam  was  rather  surprised  himself  at  the  price. 

"  I  guess  they  was  tough  ones,  mister,"  he  said. 
"  He  cured  'em,  didn't  he?  " 

"Ye— es." 

"Then  it's  worth  the  money.  You  don't  want 
*em  back,  do  you  ?  " 

"  No,"  admitted  the  other  ;  "  but  it's  a  thunderin' 
sight  to  pay ;  "  and  he  went  off  grumbling. 

"Don't  the  doctor  make  monej^,  though?" 
thought  Sam.  "  He'd  orter  give  me  a  commission 
on  them  two  dollars." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  193 


CHAPTER    XXI. 


SAM   OBTAINS    A   PLACE. 


HAvniG  disposed  of  Ms  circulars,  Sam  went  up  to 
the  office. 

''Have  you  distributed  all  the  circulars?"  asked 
the  doctor. 

"Yes,  sir." 

*' Well,  here's  the  ten  cents  I  promised  you." 

Sam  took  it,  but  stood  his  ground. 

''  I  sent  you  up  a  customer,"  he  said. 

"A  i^atient ;  yes." 

*'  And  you  made  two  dollars  out  of  him." 

*' Who  told  you?" 

"He  did." 

"I  charged  him  m}^  regular  price.  What  of 
that?"  asked  the  doctor,  not  comprehending  Sam's 
meaning. 

"  He  wouldn't  have  come  up  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
me.     I  think  I'd  ought  to  have  a  commission," 


194  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OS, 

"Oh,  that's  it,"  said  the  doctor.  "That  doesn't 
follow.     He  came  up  because  of  the  circular." 

"No,  he  didn't,"  said  Sam.  "He  came  up 
because  I  told  him  what  a  great  doctor  you 
was." 

The  doctor  thought  over  Sam's  proposal,  and, 
being  a  sharp  man,  he  decided  that  it  was  for  his 
advantage  to  secure  an  alliance  with  him. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said.  "You  are  entitled  to 
something." 

Sam  brightened  up. 

"Here  is  a  quarter  in  addition  to  the  ten  cents  I 
just  gave  you." 

"  Thank  j^ou,  sir,"  said  Sam,  gratified. 

"  Shall  I  go  down,  and  give  away  some  more  cir- 
culars?" he  asked. 

"  Yes  ;  I'll  give  you  another  hundred.  Don't  give 
them  away  too  fast.  It's  of  no  use  to  give  to 
children." 

"All  right,  sir." 

So  Sam  went  down  into  the  street.  The  first 
passer-b}^  was  a  boy  of  twelve. 

"  Give  me  one  of  them  papers,"  he  said. 


ADRIFT  IN-  THE  STREETS.  195 

Rather  to  Ms  surprise  Sam  did  not  immediately 
comply.     He  first  asked  a  question. 

' '  Have  you  got  a  dollar  ?  " 

' '  A  dollar !  You  don't  want  a  dollar  for  that 
paper,  do  you?" 

"  No ;  but  I  aint  goin'  to  waste  it  on  you  unless 
you've  got  a  dollar." 

"What  do  I  want  of  a  dollar?"  asked  the  boy, 
surprised. 

"  To  pay  for  havin'  your  corn  cured." 

The  boy  burst  into  a  laugh. 

*'  I  aint  got  no  corns,"  he  said. 

"  Then  go  along,  and  don't  bother  me.  You're  no 
good." 

A  young  dandy  advanced,  dressed  in  the  height  of 
fashion,  swinging  a  light  cane  in  his  lavender-gloved 
hand.  A  rose  was  in  his  button-hole,  and  he  was 
just  in  the  act  of  saluting  a  young  lady,  when  Sam 
thrust  a  circular  into  his  hand. 

"  Go  right  upstairs,''  he  said,  "  and  get  your  corns 
cured.     Only  a  dollar." 

The  young  lady  burst  into  a  ringing  laugh,  and  the 

mortified  dandy  reddened  ^ith  mortification. 
13 


196  THE    Y0U2TG   OUTLAW;    OR^ 

"  Keep  j'-our  dirt}^  paper  to  j^ourself,  bo}^,"  he  said. 
''  I  am  not  troubled  with  those  —  ah,  excrescences." 

"I  never  heard  of  them  things,"  said  Sam.  "I 
said  corns." 

"  Stand  out  of  my  way,  boy,  or  I'll  cane  you," 
exclaimed  the  incensed  fop. 

"Your  cane  wouldn't  hurt,"  said  Sam,  regarding 
the  slight  stick  with  disdain.  "Never  mind;  jovl 
needn't  go  up.  I  don't  believe  you've  got  a 
dollar." 

This  was  rather  impudent  in  Sam,  I  acknowledge  ; 
and  the  dandy  would  have  been  glad  to  chastise  him. 

"Miss  Winslow,"  he  said,  "I  hope  3'ou  won't 
mind  the  rudeness  of  this  —  ah,  ragamuffin." 

"  Oh,  I  don't,"  said  the  j^oung  lady,  merrilj^ ;  "he 
amuses  me." 

"So  he  does  me;  ha,  ha!  very  good  joke,"  said 
the  dandj'',  laughing  too,  but  not  very  merril3^  "I 
hope  you  are  quite  well  to-day." 

"  Thank  j^ou,  quite  so.  But  don't  let  me  detain 
j^ou,  if  3'ou  have  an  engagement  upstairs." 

"1  assure  you,"  protested  the  3'oung  man,  hur- 
riedly, "  that  I  have  no  intention  of  going  up  at  all." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  197 

"  Then  I  must  say  good-morning,  at  anj^  rate,  as  I 
am  out  shopping  ; "  and  the  j^oung  lad}^  passed  on. 

^'I've  a  great  mind  to  flog  j^ou,"  said  the  dandy, 
frowning  at  Sam.  ""I  would  if  you  wasn't  so  dirty.' 
I  wouldn't  like  to  soil  my  hands  by  taking  hold  of 
you." 

"  That's  lucky  for  you,"  said  Sam,  coolly. 

The  answer  was  a  withering  frown,  but  Sam  was 
tough,  and  not  easily  withered. 

*'Aint  he  stuck  up,  though?"  thought  he,  as  the 
young  man  left  him.  *'He  don't  seem  to  like  me 
much." 

''  Have  3^ou  got  any  corns,  sii'?"  he  asked,  thrust- 
ing a  paper  into  the  hands  of  a  portly  gentleman 
with  a  merry  face. 

The  gentleman  laughed. 

"  Reall}^,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "that  is  a  very  sin- 
gular question." 

"  Is  it?"  said  Sam.     "  I  don't  know  why." 

"  Why  do  you  ask?  " 

*' Because  Dr.  Graham  upstairs  will  cura  you 
before  you  know  it.     It's  only  a  dollar." 

"  You  are  sure  you  are  not  Dr.   Graham,   v^»r- 


198  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW;   OE, 

self?"  said  the  stout  man,  regarding  Sam  with  an 
amused  expression. 

"If  I  was,  I'd  wear  better  clothes,"  said  Sam. 
"  He  makes  lots  of  money,  the  doctor  does." 

"You'd  better  learn  the  business,  my  young 
fiiend." 

"  I  guess  I  will,  if  he'll  learn  me,"  said  Sam. 
"It'll  pay  better  than  standin'  here,  givin'  away 
paj)ers." 

"Don't  that  pay?" 

"  Not  very  well,"  said  Sam.  "  I  only  get  ten 
cents  a  hundred." 

"  Can  you  pay  your  board  out  of  that?" 

"No,  but  I  make  commissions,  besides,"  said 
Sam. 

"How  is  that?"  asked  the  stout  gentleman,  in 
some  curiosity. 

"  If  you'd  gone  upstairs,  and  had  two  corns  cured, 
the  doctor,  —  he'd  have  given  me  a  quarter." 

"Would  he  really?" 

"  Yes,  he  would.     Hadn't  jovl  better  go?" 

"  I  have  no  occasion  for  Dr.  Graham's  services,  at 
present,"  said  the  gentleman,  laughing,  "  but  still  I 


ADRIFT  JiV  THE  STREETS.  199 

don  t  want  you  to  lose  by  me.  Here's  a  quarter," 
producing  the  same  from  Ms  vest-pocket,  and  gmng 
it  to  Sam.  "  Isn't  that  just  as  well  as  if  I  had  gone 
up?" 

"Thank  you,  sir.  You're  a  gentleman,"  said 
Sam.     ' '  Do  you  come  by  here  often  ?  " 

His  new  acquaintance  laughed.  "Every  day," 
he  answered,  "but  I  don't  give  away  quarters  every 
day.  If  you  expect  that,  I  am  afraid  I  shall  have  to 
walk  on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  Good-morning, 
and  success  to  you." 

"  Good-mornin',"  said  Sam. 

"Well,  here's  luck,"  thought  Sam.  "Hike  this 
business  pretty  well.  I've  made  sixt}^  cents  already, 
and  the  doctor's  goin'  to  pay  me  ten  cents  more. 
That'll  buy  me  a  good,  square  dinner,  and  take  me  to 
the  Old  Bowery  besides." 

So  Sam  continued  distributing  his  circulars.  Some 
into  whose  hands  they  were  thrust  did  not  appear 
to  be  suitabl}^  grateful ;  and,  though  on  the  lookout 
for  a  customer,  he  did  not  succeed  in  finding  any, 
till  by  good  luck  the  last    circular  was  placed  in 


200  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OE, 

tlie  hands  of  a  man  ^vho  was  in  search  of  just  the 
relief  which  it  promised. 

"  Where  is  Dr.  Graham's  office?"  he  inquired. 

"Eight  upstairs,  No.-  10,"  said  Sam,  eagerly. 
"  You  just  follow  me,  I'll  show  you." 

"  I  think  I  can  find  it  without  3^ou,"  said  the 
other. 

"  Oh,  I  can  go  up  just  as  well  as  not,"  said  Sam, 
who  had  a  special  object,  as  we  know,  in  serving  as 
guide. 

"  Very  well.     Go  ahead,  and  I  will  follow  you." 

Upstairs  went  Sam,  the  new  patient  following  him. 

"  I've  brought  another,"  said  Sam,  as  he  burst 
into  the  office. 

The  doctor,  though  glad  of  another  patient,  was 
rather  vexed  at  the  style  of  Sam's  announcement. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "Sit  down  there,  till  I 
have  leisure  to  attend  to  you." 

"All  right,  sir,"  said  Sam,  sitting  down  on  the 
sofa  in  the  outer  office,  and  taking  up  the  morning 
"Herald." 

In  twenty  minutes  the  patient  departed,  relieved. 

"Now,"  said  Dr.   Graham,  addressing  Sam,  "I 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  201 

ha^e  sometMng  to  say  to  you.  When  you  bring  in  a 
patient  again,  don't  break  out  as  you  did  just  now : 
'  I've  brought  another.'     I  was  very  much  mortified." 

"  What  shall  I  say,  then?  "  asked  Sam. 

"You  needn't  say  anything,  except  'This  is  Dr. 
Graham,  sir.'" 

"Very  well,"  said  Sam,  "I'll  remember.  How 
much  did  you  make  out  of  him  ?  " 

' '  Don't  speak  in  that  way.  My  charges  were 
three  dollars." 

"  How  much  are  you  going  to  give  me?" 

"  There's  thirty  cents." 

"  I  thinly  I'll  go  and  get  some  dinner,  now,"  said 
Sam.     "  Will  you  want  me  to-morrow  ?  " 

"I've  been  thinking,"  said  the  doctor,  "that  I 
would  engage  you  as  my  office-boy." 

"  What  would  I  have  to  do  ? " 

"  Stay  in  the  office  when  I  am  away,  and  dis- 
tribute circulars  when  I  want  you  to." 

"  How  much  will  you  pay  me  ?  " 

"  Three  dollars  a  week." 

"  And  commissions  too? " 

*'  No  ;  we'll  say  four  days  without  commissions." 


202  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

*'A11  right,  sir.  I'll  be  on  hand  to-morro-w 
inornin'." 

'Tve  got  a  place,  at  last,"  thought  Sam,  in  exul- 
tation.    "  Now,  I'll  go  to  dinner." 


ADRIFT  JJSr  THE  STREETS,  203 


CHAPTER  XXII. 


THE  TOUNG  DOCTOR. 


The  fact  that  lie  had  obtained  a  place  gave  Sam  a 
new  sense  of  importance.  Having  drifted  about  the 
city  streets  for  six  months,  never  knowing  in  the 
morning  where  his  meals  were  to  come  from  during 
the  day,  or  whether  he  was  to  have  any,  it  was 
pleasant  to  think  that  he  was  to  have  regular  wages. 
He  presented  himself  in  good  season  the  next 
morning. 

He  was  waiting  outside  when  the  doctor  arrived. 

"  So  you  are  on  hand,"  said  Dr.  Graham. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  By  the  way,  what  is  your  name?" 

"Sam  Barker." 

"  Very  well,  Sam,  come  upstairs  with  me." 

Sam  followed  the  doctor  to  his  office. 

The  doctor  surveyed  his  young  assistant  with 
critical  eyes. 


204  THE    YOUNG    OUTLAW;    OH, 

"  Where  do  you  huj  your  clothes  ?  "  he  asked. 

*'I  haven't  bought  any,"  said  Sam.  "I  brought 
these  from  the  country." 

"They  seem  to  be  considerably  the  worse  for 
wear.  In  fact,  your  appearance  doesn't  do  credit  to 
my  establishment." 

*'I  do  look  rather  ragged,"  said  Sam;  "but  I 
haven't  got  enough  money  to  buy  any  new  clothes." 

"  I  have  a  son  two  years  older  than  you.  He  may 
have  some  old  clothes  that  would  suit  you.  I'll  have 
a  bundle  made  up,  and  brought  down  to  the  office 
to-morrow." 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Sam. 

The  doctor  kept  his  promise,  and  the  next  day  our 
hero  was  enabled  to  throw  aside  his  rags,  and  attire 
himself  in  a  neat  gray  suit,  which  considerably 
imjDroved  his  outward  appearance. 

"Now,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  would  suggest  that  a 
little  more  attention  to  washing  would  be  of  advan- 
tage to  you." 

"  All  right,  sir ;  I'll  remember." 

Sam  scrubbed  himself  to  a  considerable  degree  of 


ADRIFT  IN"  THE  STREETS,  205 

cleanness,  and  combed  his  hair.  The  ultimate  result 
was  a  very  creditable-looking  office  boy. 

"Now,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  expect  you  to  be 
faithful  to  my  interests." 

Sam  readily  promised  this.  Akeady  he  formed 
glowing  anticipations  of  learning  the  business,  and 
succeeding  the  doctor  ;  or,  at  any  rate,  being  admitted 
to  partnership  at  some  future  day. 

Several  weeks  passed  by.  Considering  his  pre- 
vious course  of  life,  Sam  acquitted  himself  very  well, 
He  opened  the  office  in  the  morning,  swept  it  out, 
and  got  it  in  order  before  the  doctor  arrived. 
During  the  day  he  ran  on  errands,  distributed 
circulars,  in  fact  made  himself  generally  useful. 
The  doctor  was  rather  irregular  in  coming  in  the 
morning,  so  that  Sam  was  sometimes  obliged  to  wait 
for  him  two  or  three  hours.  One  morning,  when 
sitting  at  his  ease  reading  the  morning  paper,  he 
was  aroused  by  a  knock  at  the  door. 

He  rose  and  opened  it. 

"  Is  the  doctor  in?"  asked  a  young  man  of  Irish 
extraction. 


206  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OE, 

"  Hasn't  come  yet,"  said  Sam.  "  Would  you  like 
to  see  liim  ?  " 

"  I  would  thin.  He's  the  man  that  cures  corns., 
isn't  he?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sam.  "He's  the  best  corn-doctor  in 
the  city." 

"  Thin  I've  come  to  the  right  place,  sure." 

"  Have  you  got  one  ?  " 

"I've  got  a  mm-therin'  big  one.  It  almost  kills 
me." 

"  Step  in  and  wait  for  the  doctor.  He'll  be  in 
soon." 

"  I'm  in  a  great  hurry,"  said  the  young  man.  "  It's 
porter  I  am  in  a  store  down  town,  and  I  can't  stay 
long.     How  much  does  the  doctor  charge  ?  " 

"A  dollar  for  each  corn." 

"  O  murder  !  does  he  now?" 

"Isn't  it  worth  that?" 

"  It's  a  mighty  big  price  to  pay." 

"You  see,"  said  Sam,  "he's  a  famous  doctor; 
that's  why  he  charges  so  much." 

"  I  don't  care  for  that  at  all.  I'm  a  poor  man,  and 
it's  hard  on  me  payin'  that  much." 


ADRIFT  IN-  THE  STREETS.  207 

Here  an  idea  struck  Sam.  He  had  often  witnessed 
the  doctor's  operations,  and  to  his  inexperienced 
mind  they  seemed  easy  enough  to  perform.  Why 
couldn't  he  operate  a  little  on  his  own  account  before 
the  doctor  came  ?  By  so  doing  he  would  make  a  little 
money,  and  if  successful  he  would  have  a  future 
source  of  revenue,  as  patients  often  came  when  he 
was  alone. 

*'  I'm  the  doctor's  assistant,"  he  commenced. 

*'  Are  you  now ?     So  you're  the  young  doctor? '* 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"  Then  it's  a  mighty  young  doctor  ye  are." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Sam.  "  I've  learnt  the  trade  of 
Dr.  Graham." 

"  Do  you  work  at  it  mu  h?"  asked  the  patient. 

*'Yes,"  said  Sam,  "  when  the  doctor's  away.  ^'1 
aint  as  good  as  he  is,"  he  admitted  candidly,  "and 
that  is  why  I  work  cheaper." 

*'  You  work  cheaper,  do  yer?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam.     "  I  only  charge  half  price." 

"  That's  fifty  cents." 

''Yes." 

**  And  do  you  think  you  could  cure  me? 


208  TRE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OR, 

"  Of  course  I  could,"  said  Sam,  confidently. 

"  Then  go  ahead,"  said  the  Irishman,  in  a  fit  of 
xecl^less  confidence  which  he  was  destined  to  repent. 

"  Sit  down  there,"   said   Sam,   pointing  out   the 
patient's  chair. 

The  patient  obeyed. 

"  Now  take  off  3'our  hoots.     You  don't  think  I  can 
cut  through  the  boot,  do  3'ou  ?  " 

He  was  obeyed. 

Sam  began  to  fumble   among  the    sharp    instru- 
ments. 

* '  What  are  you  goin*  to  do  ? "  asked  the  patient, 
rather  alarmed. 

"Oh,   don't  be  afraid,"  said  Sam.     "You  won't 
feel  it." 

"  Won't  feel  the  knife? " 

"No,  I'm  goin  to  put  on  some  liquid  that'll  take 
away  the  feeling." 

"  Shure  j^ou  ought  to  know,"  said  the  patient,  his 
confidence  returning. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  said  Sam. 

"  Now  sit  still." 

Thus  far  Sam  was  perfectly  self-possessed.     He 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  209 

went  about  Ms  preparations  witn  an  air  that  imposed 
upon  the  patient.     But  the  difficulty  was  to  come. 

Things  which  look  easy  often  are  found  difficult 
when  attempted.  When  Sam  began  to  wield  the 
doctor's  instruments  he  did  so  awkwardly.  Tie 
lacked  that  delicacy  of  touch  which  can  only  be 
acquired  by  practice,  and  the  result  was  tragical. 
The  knife  slipped,  inflicting  a  deep  gash,  and  causing 
a  quick  flow  of  blood. 

"Oh,  murder,  I'm  kilt!"  exclaimed  the  terrified 
patient,  bounding  to  his  feet,  and  rushing  frantically 
round  the  room.     "  I'm  bladin'  to  death." 

Sam  was  almost  equally  frightened.  He  stood, 
with  the  knife   in  his  hand,  panic-stricken. 

"I'll  have  you  up  for  murder,  I  will!"  shouted 
Mr.  Dennis  O'Brien,  clutching  the  wounded  member. 
"Oh,  why  did  I  ever  come  to  a  boy  doctor?  Oh, 
whirra,  whirra ! " 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  it,"  said  Sam,  frightened. 

"  You'll  be  hanged  for  killin'  me,  bad  'cess  to  you. 
Gro  for  a  doctor,  quick." 

Almost  out  of  his  wits  Sam  was  about  to  obey, 
when  as  he  opened  "the  door  he  confronted  his  em- 

u 


210  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OS, 

ployer.  Under  ordinary  circumstances  he  would 
have  been  sorry  to  have  him  come  in  so  soon.  Now 
he  was  glad. 

"What's  the  meaning  of  all  this?"  asked  Dr. 
Graham,  snrvejdng  with  astonishment  the  Irishman 
prancing  around  the  office,  and  Sam's  scared  face. 

"  He's  kilt  me,  doctor,"  said  Dennis,  groaning. 

"He?    Who?" 

"  The  young  doctor,  shure." 

"Who's  he?" 

"That's  the  one,"  said  Mr.  O'Brien,  pointing  to 
Sam.  "He's  cut  my  toe  off,  and  I'm  bladin'  to 
death." 

"What  does  this  mean,  Sam?"  said  the  doctor, 
sternly. 

"He  was  in  a  hurry,"  stammered  Sam,  "and  I 
didn't  want  him  to  go  away,  so  I  thought  I'd  try  to 
cure  him,  but  the  knife  slipped,  and  —  " 

"I'll  attend  to  your  case  afterwards.  Sit  down, 
sir." 


"  Will  I  die?"  asked  Dennis,  lugubriously. 
"No  dange; 
just  as  I  did. 


"No  danger,  now.     You  might,  if  I  hadn't  come 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  2 1  f 

Matters  were  soon  remedied,  and  Dennis  went 
away  relieved,  well  satisfied  because  the  doctor  de- 
clined, under  the  circumstances,  to  receive  any  fee. 

''Now,  Sam,"  said  the  doctor,  after  he  had  gone, 
"  what  do  you  mean  by  such  work  as  this  ?" 

"  I  thought  I  could  do  it,"  said  Sam,  abashed. 

"  I  ought  to  turn  you  awa}'  for  this." 

"  It  was  only  a  mistake,"  said  Sam. 

*'It  came  near  being  a  very  serious  mist*ike. 
What  would  you  have  done  if  I  had  not  come  just 
as  I  did?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Sam. 

"  Never  touch  my  instruments  again.  If  you  do  1 
shall  discharge  you  at  once ;  that  is,  after  giving  you 
a  sound  flogging." 

Sam  felt  that  he  had  got  off  easily,  and  determined 
not  to  set  up  again  as  doctor  on  his  own  account 


^i2  TME    YOUNG   OUTLAW;  OS^ 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

SAM  FALXS  INTO  BAD  COMPANY. 

For  a  time  matters  went  on  smoothly.  Sam  was 
abashed  by  the  result  of  his  experiment,  and  discour- 
aged from  making  another.  He  felt  that  he  had  a 
good  place.  Living  chiefly  at  the  lodging-house  his 
expenses  were  small,  and  four  dollars  a  week  were 
ample  to  meet  them.  There  was  one  thing  he 
missed,  however,  —  the  freedom  to  roam  about  the 
streets  at  will.  He  felt  this  the  more  when  the 
pleasant  spring  weather  came  on.  There  were  times 
when  he  got  sick  of  the  confinement,  and  longed  to 
leave  the  oflSce. 

It  was  a  bright  morning  in  May  when  Dr.  Graham 
called  from  the  inner  office  :  — 

"  Sam." 

"What,  sir?" 

"  Do  you  know  the  way  to  Brooklyn?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 


ADBIFT  IN  TRtl   STREETS.  213 

**  I  want  you  to  go  over  there  for  me." 

"All  right,  sir." 

It  may  be  explained  that  Dr.  Graham,  on  the  first 
of  May,  had  moved  over  to  Brooktyn,  and  was 
occupying  a  house  about  a  mile  from  Fulton  Ferry. 

"  I  want  3^ou  to  go  to  my  house,"  said  the  doctor, 

''No. —  H street,  and  carry  this  letter   to  my 

wife." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  forgot  entirely  to  leave  her  some  money  to 
meet  a  bill ;  but  if  you  go  at  once  it  will  reach  her  in 
time.     Sta}^,  I  will  give  you  the  address  on  a  card." 

"All  right,  sir." 

"Here  is  a  quarter.  It  will  pay  your  car-fare, 
and  over  the  ferry  both  ways.  Now,  mind  you  come 
back  as  quick  as  you  can." 

This  Sam  readily  promised.  He  was  glad  to  get 
awa}^  for  the  morning,  as  he  calculated  that  the  expe- 
dition would  take  him  nearly,  or  quite,  thi'ee  hours. 
He  took  a  car  and  got  out  at  the  Astor  Hou>se.  On 
his  way  down  to  the  ferry  he  met  an  old  street 
a  jquaintance,  —  Jim  Nolan. 

"  How  are  you,  Sam?  "  said  Jim. 


214  TBE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OK, 

"  Tip-top  !  "  answered  Sam. 

*' Wliere  do  you  keep  yourself?  Are  you  blackin' 
boots,  now?" 

"No,"  answered  Sam,  with  rather  an  important 
air.     "  I'm  in  an  oflSce." 

' '  How  much  do  you  get  ?  " 

"  Four  dollars  a  week." 

' '-  That's  good.     How'd  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  the  doctor  took  a  fancy  to  me,  and  asked  me 
to  come." 

''  You're  in  luck.     So  you're  with  a  doctor? " 

"Yes,  —  Dr.  Graham.     He's  a  corn-doctor." 

"  Where  does  he  hang  out?  " 

"  No.  — ,  Broadway." 

*'  Do  you  have  much  to  do  ?  " 

"Not  very  much." 

"  How  do  you  come  down  here,  then?" 

"  I'm  takin'  a  letter  to  Brooklj^n  for  the  doctor." 

"Are  you?'* 

"Yes,"  said  Sam;  adding  unluckily,  " There s 
money  in  it." 

"Is  there?"  said  Jim,  pricking  up  his  ears. 
"  How  do  you  know?     Let's  see  the  letter." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  215 

Sam  took  tlie  letter  from  Ms  inside  coat-pocket, 
and  passed  it  to  Jim. 

The  latter  held  it  up  to  the  light,  and  tried  to  look 
inside.  Fortune  favored  his  efforts.  The  envelope 
was  imperfecta  fastened,  and  came  open. 

"There,  Jim,"  said  Sam,  "now  see  what  you've 
done." 

"Let's  look  inside,  and  see  how  much  money 
there  is,"  suggested  Jim. 

Sam  hesitated. 

"It  won't  do  any  harm  to  look  at  it,"  said  the 
tempter. 

"  That's  so,"  said  Sam. 

He  accordingly  drew  out  the  enclosure,  and  dis- 
closed two  ten-dollar  bills. 

Jim's  eyes  sparkled  with  greed. 

"Twenty  dollars!"  he  exclaimed.  "What  a  lot 
of  good  that  would  do  us ! " 

Sam's  principles  were  not  firm,  but  he  had  a  good 
place,  and  the  temptation  was  not  as  strong  as  in 
Jim's  case;  sc^  he  answered,  "Maybe  it  wocdd,  but 
it  aint  om's." 


216  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OB, 

Jim  fastened  his     little  black  ejes  on  Sam  cun- 
ningly. 

"  It  might  be,"  he  answered. 

"How  could  it  be?" 

"  You  could  keep  it." 

''  The  doctor'd  find  it  out." 

' '  Tell  him  somebody  hooked  it  out  of  your  pocket. 
He  wouldn't  know." 

Sam  shook  his  head. 

"  I  aint  goin'  to  lose  a  good  place  just  for  that," 
he  said. 

' '  Thinlv  what  a  lot  of  things  you  could  do  for  ten 
dollars,"  urged  Jim. 

"  Twenty,  3^ou  mean." 

"  That's  ten  apiece,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  you  want  some,  do  j^ou?"  inquired  Sam. 

"Yes;  I'll  take  it  from  3-0 u,  and  then  give  you 
back  half.  So,  it'll  be  me  that  stole  it.  They  can't 
do  nothin'  to  you.  Come,  I'll  go  over  to  Brooklyn 
with  3'ou,  and  then  joii  can  make  up  3'our  mind." 

On  board  the  boat  Jim  renewed  his  persuasions, 
and  finally'  Sam  yielded. 

"  I'm  afraid  the  doctor'U  think  I  took  it,"  he  said. 


ADRIFT  IN  THB   STREETS,  217 

"  No  matter  !     He  can't  prove  notliin'." 

"We'll  find  it  hard  to  change  the  bills." 

"No  we  won't.  I'll  tell  you  where  to  go.  Can 
you  play  billiards  ?  " 

"  No  ;  but  I'd  lilce  to  learn." 

"I  know,  and  I'll  learn  you.  There's  a  saloon 
over  in  Brooklyn  where  we  can  go  and  have  a  game. 
We'll  pay  out  of  one  of  the  bills." 

Now  Sam  had  long  wanted  to  learn  the  game  of 
billiards,  and  this  seemed  a  good  opportunity. 
Perhaps  this  consideration  as  much  as  an}^  deter- 
mined him  to  close  with  his  friend's  proposal.  When, 
therefore,  they  had  reached  the  Brooklyn  side, 
instead  of  taking  the  horse-cars  to  Dr.  Graham's 
house,  Sam  followed  his  companion  to  a  low  billiard 
saloon  not  far  away. 

There  were  four  tables,  one  of  which  only  was 
occupied,  for  it  was  too  early.  On  one  side  of  the 
room  was  a  bar,  behind  which  stood  a  man  in  his 
shirt-sleeves. 

"  Well,  bo3's,  what  do  jou  want?"  he  asked. 

"We  want  a  table,"  said  Jim.  "We're  goin'  to 
play  a  game.'' 


218  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR, 

The  man  in  the  shirt-sleeves  produced,  from  under- 
neath the  counter,  a  green  pasteboard  box  containing 
four  ivory  billiard  balls. 

"  What  table  will  3'ou  have?"  he  asked. 

*'  This  one  here,"  said  Jim,  leading  the  way  to  one 
farthest  from  the  door. 

"  Now  take  a  cue,  Sam,"  he  said.  "  We'll  have  a 
jolly  game." 

"  You  must  tell  me  how  to  play." 

"  Oh,  rU  learn  you." 

Jim  was  not  a  very  skilful  player,  but  he  knew 
something  about  the  game,  and  under  his  instruction 
Sam  made  some  progress,  being  able  to  make  a  shot 
now  and  then.  He  was  very  much  pleased  with  the 
game,  and  determined  to  devote  his  spare  earnings  to 
this  form  of  recreation  hereafter.  When  the  game 
was  ended,  a  full  hour  had  passed. 

' '  I  didn't  thinly  it  was  so  late,"  said  Sam,  starting. 
"  1  shall  have  to  go." 

' '  Go  and  pay  for  the  game  first." 

^'  You  ought  to  pay  half." 

"No;  I  beat.  The  one  that  loses  the  game  has 
to  pay." 


ADRIFT  IN  TME  STREETS,  219 

''Of  course  you  beat.     It  was  my  first  game." 

"  Never  mind.  You'll  soon  play  as  well  as  I,  and 
then  I  shall  have  to  pay  half  the  time." 

"  Do  3^ou  think  I'll  improve?" 

"  Of  course  you  will.     "We'll  play  again  to-night." 

"Here?" 

''No,  in  New  York.  I'll  show  you  a  good  saloon 
in  Chatham  street." 

Sam  stepped  up  to  the  counter. 

"  How  much  do  you  want  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Sixty  cents." 

"It's  only  twenty-five  cents  a  game,"  said  Jim 
Nolan. 

"Your  game  was  longer  than  two  ordinary  ones. 
I'll  call  it  fifty  cents." 

Sam  produced  the  ten-dollar  bill,  and  received  in 
return  nine  dollars  and  a  half.  The  clerk  was  rather 
surprised  at  a  boy  presenting  so  large  a  bill.  He 
suspected  that  it  was  not  come  by  honestly ;  but,  as 
he  argued,  that  was  none  of  his  business.  What  he 
cared  for  most  was  to  get  paid  for  the  billiards.  So 
Sam,  who  had  felt  a  little  uneasy  about  ofiering  the 
money,  was  more  at  his  ease. 


220  TSE    TOUNG   outlaw;   OB, 

''  "We  had  a  good  game,  didn't  we?"  said  Jim. 

"  Yes,"  said  Sam. 

"  And  you  did  bully  for  the  first  time.  I  couldn't 
play  so  well  my  first  game." 

Sam  felt  flattered  by  this  compliment  from  his 
companion. 

*'  Now  I  must  go  back,"  he  said. 

"I'll  go  along  back  with  3^ou.  But  we'll  take  a 
drink  first.     I  want  to  change  my  bill  too." 

' '  Why  didn't  you  do  it  in  the  billiard-saloon  ? 
They  had  a  bar  there." 

"They  might  suspect  something  if  both  of  us 
ofiered  tens.  Here's  a  place  close  by.  C-^me  in 
here." 

Jim  led  the  way  into  a  drinking-saloon,  and  Sam 
followed. 

•• '  It's  my  treat,"  said  Jim.     * '  What'U  you  have  ?  " 

"  What  are  j-ou  goin'  to  take?" 

"  A  whiske3^-punch." 

"  I'll  take  one  too." 

"Two  whiskey-punches,  and  mind  you  make  'era 
stiff,"  said  Jim. 


A'OUIFT  IN   THE    STREETS,  993 

He  tossed  down  his  glass,  but  Sam  drank  more 
slowly. 

Jim  paid  for  the  drinks,  and  they  went  out  into  the 
street. 


222  THE    TODNG   OUIIjAW,    OM^ 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 


SAMS   EXCUSES. 


Sam  was  not  used  to  liquor,  and  was  more  easily 
affected  than  most.  "WTien  lie  got  out  into  the  street 
Ms  head  spun  round,  and  he  staggered.  His  com- 
panion observed  it. 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  ter  say  yer  tight,  Sam?" 
he  said,  pausing  and  looking  at  him. 

''  I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  said  Sam,  *'  but  I  feel 
queer." 

"Kinder  light  in  the  head,  and  shaky  in  the 
legs?" 

"  Yes,  that's  the  way  I  feel." 

"  Then  you're  drunk." 

"Drunk!"  ejaculated  Sam,  rather  frightened,  for 
he  was  still  unsophisticated  compared  with  his  com- 
panion. 

"Just  so.    I  say,  you  must  be  a  chicken  to  get 


ADRIFT  IHr  THE  STREETS,  223 

tight  on  one  wliiskey-punch,"  added  Jim,  rather 
contemptuously. 

"It  was  strong,"  said  Sam,  by  way  of  apology, 
leaning  against  a  lamp-post  for  support. 

"It  was  stifSsh,"  said  Jim.     "I  always  take  'era 

BO." 

"  And  don't  you  feel  it  at  all?  "  queried  Sam. 

"Not  a  bit,"  said  Jim,  decidedly.  "I  aint  a 
baby." 

"Nor  I  either,"  said  Sam,  with  a  spark  of  his 
accustomed  spirit.     "  Only  I  aint  used  to  it," 

"  Why,  I  could  take  three  glasses,  one  after  the 
other,  without  gettin'  tight,"  said  Jim,  proudly.  "I 
teU  you,  I've  got  a  strong  stomach." 

"I  wish  I  hadn't  taken  the  drink,"  said  Sam. 
"  When  will  I  feel  better?" 

"  In  an  hour  or  two." 

"I  can't  go  back  to  the  doctor  this  way.  He'll 
know  I've  been  drinkin'.  I  wish  I  could  lie  down 
somewhere." 

"I'll  tell  you  what.  Come  round  to  the  ferry- 
room.     You  can  sit  down  there  till  you  feel  better." 

"  Give  me  your  arm,  Jim.     I'm  light-headed." 


224  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OS, 

With  Jim's  assistance  Sara  made  his  way  to  Ful- 
ton Feny,  but  instead  of  going  over  in  the  next 
boat  he  leaned  back  in  his  seat  in  the  waiting-room, 
and  rested.  Jim  walked  about  on  the  pier,  his 
hands  in  his  pocket,  with  an  independent  air.  He 
felt  happ3^  and  prosperous.  Never  before  in  his  life, 
probabl}^,  had  he  had  so  much  money  in  his  posses- 
sion. Some  men  with  a  hundred  thousand  dollars 
would  have  felt  poorer  than  Jim  with  nine  dollars  and 
a  half. 

By  and  by  Sam  felt  enough  better  to  start  on  his 
homeward  journey.  Jim  agreed  to  accompau}'-  him 
as  far  as  the  New  York  side. 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  doctor  will  say  when  he 
finds  out  the  monej^  is  gone,"  said  Sam,  soberly. 

"You  just  tell  him  it  was  stolen  from  jou  by  a 
piclq)Ocket." 

"  Suppose  he  don't  believe  it?  " 

"  He  can't  prove  nothin'." 

"  He  might  search  me." 

"So  he  might,"  said  Jim.  "I'll  tell  you  what 
you'd  better  do." 

"What?"  '    ' 


ADRIFT  IN    THE   STREETS.  225 

"  Just  give  me  the  money  to  keep  for  you.  Then 
Lf  he  searches  you,  he  won't  find  it." 

If  Jim  expected  this  suggestion  to  be  adopted,  he 
andervakied  Sam's  shrewdness.  That  young  man 
had  not  knocked  about  the  streets  eight  months  for 
nothing. 

"I  guess  not,"  said  Sam,  significantly.  ''Maybe 
I  wouldn't  find  it  any  easier  if  you  took  it." 

"  You  don't  call  me  a  thief,  do  you?"  demanded 
Jim,  oflended. 

"It  looks  as  if  we  was  both  thieves,"  said  Sam, 
candidly. 

' '  You  needn't  taUi  so  loud,"  said  Jim,  hurriedly. 
''There's  no  use  in  tellin'  everybod}^  that  I  see.  I 
don't  want  the  money,  only,  if  the  old  man  finds  it, 
don't  blame  me." 

*^  You  needn't  be  mad,  Jim,"  said  Sam.  "I'll 
need  the  money  mj^self.     I  guess  I'll  have  to  hide  it." 

"  Do  3^ou  wear  stockin's?"  asked  Jim. 

"Yes;  don't  you?" 

"Not    in  warm  weather.     They   aint    no    good. 

They  only  get  dirt}^     But  if  you  wear  'em,  that's  the 

place  to  hide  the  money." 
1ft 


226  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR^ 

"I  guess  3^ou're  right,"  said  Sam.  "I  wouldn't 
have  thought  of  it.     "Where  can  I  do  it  ?  " 

"  Wait  till  we're  on  the  New  York  side.  You  can 
sit  down  on  one  of  the  piers  and  do  it.  Nobodj^ll 
see  3"0u." 

Sam  thought  this  good  advice,  and  decided  to 
follow  it. 

"  There  is  some  use  in  stockin's,"  said  Jim,  re« 
flectively.  "  If  I  was  in  your  place,  I  wouldn't  know 
where  to  stow  away  the  money.  Where  are  you  goin* 
now  ?  " 

"I'll  have  to  go  hack,"  said  Sam.  "  I've  been  a 
long  time  akeady." 

"  I'm  goin'  to  get  some  dinner,"  said  Jim. 

*'I  haven't  got  time,"  said  Sam.  "Besides,  I 
don't  feel  so  hungry  as  usual.  I  guess  it's  the  drink 
I  took." 

"It  don't  take  away  my  appetite,"  said  his  com- 
panion, with  an  air  of  superiority. 

Sam  took  the  cars  home.  Knowing  what  he  did,  it 
was  with  an  uncomfortable  feeling  that  he  ascended 
the  stairs  and  entered  the  presence  of  Dr.  Graham. 

The  doctor  looked  angry. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  227 

''"WTiat  made  you  so  long?"  he  demandetl  ab- 
ruptly.    "Did  3'ou  find  the  house?" 

"No,"  answered  Sam,  wishing  that  his  embarrass- 
ing explanations  were  fully  over.     "  No,  I  didn't." 

"  You  didn't  find  the  house ! "  exclaimed  the  doc- 
tor, in  angry  surprise.     "  Why  didn't  you?" 

' '  I  thought  it  wasn't  any  use,"  stammered  Sam. 

"Wasn't  any  use!"  repeated  the  chiropodist. 
"Explain  yourself,  sir,  at  once." 

"As  long  as  I  hadn't  got  the  letter,"  proceeded 
Sam 

Now  the  secret  was  out. 

"What  did  you  do  with  the  letter?"  demanded 
Dr.  Graham,  suspiciously. 

"I  lost  it." 

"Lost  it!  How  could  you  lose  it?  Did  you 
know  there  was  money  in  it?"  said  his  emplo3^er, 
looking  angry  and  disturbed. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  you  said  so." 

"  Then  why  were  you  not  careful  of  it,  you  young 
rascal ? " 

"I  was,  sir;  that  is,  I  tried  to  be.  But  it  was 
stolen." 


228  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OE, 

"Wlio  would  steal  the  letter  unless  he  knew  that 
it  contained  monej^  ?  " 

"That's  it,  sir.  I  ought  not  to  have  told  anj^- 
bodj." 

"Sit  down,  and  tell  me  all  about  it,  or  it  will  be 
the  worse  for  you,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Now  for  it ! "  thought  Sam. 

"You  see,  sir,"  he  commenced,  "I  was  in  the 
horse-cars  in  Brooklyn,  when  I  saw  a  boy  I  knew. 
We  got  to  talldng,  and,  before  I  knew  it,  I  told  him 
that  I  was  carryin'  a  letter  with  mone}'"  in  it.  I  took 
it  out  of  my  coat-pocket,  and  showed  it  to  him." 

"  You  had  no  business  to  do  it,"  said  Dr.  Graham. 
"No  one  but  a  fool  would  show  a  money-letter. 
So  the  boy  stole  it,  did  he?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Sam,  hastily.     "  It  wasn't  he." 

"  Who  was  it,  then?  Don't  be  all  day  telling  3^our 
stor}^,"  said  the  doctor,  irritably. 

' '  There  was  a  j^oung  man  sitting  on  the  other  side 
of  me,"  said  Sam.  "He  was  well-dressed,  and  I 
didn't  think  he'd  do  such  a  thing  ;  but  he  must  have 
stole  the  letter." 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?  " 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  229 

*'  He  got  out  only  two  or  three  minutes  afterwards, 
and  it  wasn't  long  after  tliat  that  I  missed  the  letter." 

"Whatdidj^oudo?" 

"I  stopped  the  car,  and  went  back.  Jim  went 
back  along  with  me.  We  looked  all  round,  tryin' 
to  find  the  man,  but  we  couldn't." 

"  Of  course  j-ou  couldn't,"  growled  the  doctor. 
"Did  you  think  he  would  stay  till  you  came 
up?" 

"No,  sir.  That  is,  I  didn't  know  what  to  think. 
I  felt  so  bad  about  losing  the  money,"  said  Sam,  art- 
fully. 

Now  this  story  was  on  the  whole  very  well  got 
up.  It  did  not  do  credit  to  Sam's  principles,  but 
it  did  do  credit  to  his  powers  of  invention.  It  might 
be  true.  There  are  such  men  as  piclvpockets  to  be 
found  riding  in  our  city  horse-cars,  as  possibly  some  of 
my  readers  may  have  occasion  to  know.  As  yet  Dr. 
Graham  did  not  doubt  the  story  of  his  young  assist- 
ant.    Sam  came  very  near  getting  off  scot-free. 

"But  for  your  carelessness  this  money  would  not 
have  been  lost,"  said  his  employer.  "  You  ought  to 
make  up  the  loss  to  me." 


230  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW;   OH, 

"  I  haven't  got  any  money,"  said  Sam. 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  Dr.  Graham.  "  Empty 
your  pockets,"  he  said. 

"How  lucky  I  put  the  bills  in  mj  stocking!" 
thought  Sam. 

He  turned  out  his  pockets,  disclosing  fifty  cents. 
It  was  Friday,  and  to-morrow  his  weekly  wages 
would  come  due. 

"  That's  aU  I've  got,"  he  said. 

"  Twenty  dollars  is  five  weeks'  salary,"  said  Dr. 
Graham.  ' '  You  ought  to  work  for  me  five  weeks 
without  pay." 

"I'd  starve  to  death,"  said  Sam,  in  alarm.  "I 
wouldn't  be  able  to  buy  anything  to  eat." 

"  I  can  keep  back  part  of  your  salary,  then,"  said 
his  emploj^er.  "It  is  only  proper  that  you  should 
suffer  for  3'our  negligence." 

At  this  moment  a  friend  of  the  doctor's  entered  the 
office. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  he  asked. 

Dr.  Graham  explained  briefly. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  visitor,  "  I  can  throw  some 
light  upon  your  loss." 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  231 

"You!    How?" 

"  I  happened  to  be  coming  over  from  Brooklyn  an 
hour  since  on  the  same  boat  with  that  young  man 
there,"  he  said,  quietly. 

Sam  turned  pale.  There  was  something  in  the 
speaker's  tone  that  frightened  him. 


232  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR^ 


CHAPTEE    XXV. 


BROUGHT   TO    JUSTICE. 


Sam  would  have  been  glad  to  leave  the  office,  but 
he  knew  that  to  ask  would  be  to  subject  him  to  in- 
creased suspicion.  Besides,  the  stranger  might  not 
be  intending  to  accuse  him. 

Dr.  Graham's  attention  was  excited,  and  he  asked, 
"  Do  jou  know  anything  of  this  matter,  Mr. 
Clement  ?  " 

"Yes,  doctor.  As  I  said,  I  was  on  board  the 
Brooklj'u  ferry  with  this  j^oung  man  and  a  friend  of 
his,  whom  I  believe  he  addressed  as  Jim.  I  heard 
them  talli,  being  in  the  next  seat,  about  mone}^,  and 
something  was  said  about  concealment.  My  curi- 
osity was  aroused,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  follow 
them  after  they  left  the  boat." 

"  He  knows  all  about  it,"  thought  Sam.  "  I  wish 
I  hadn't  come  back." 


ADRIFT  IN'  THE  STREETS.  233 

*'  Go  on,"  said  Dr.  Graham,  eying  Sam  sternly  as 
be  spoke.     ' '  You  followed  the  boys  ?  " 

"  Yes.  They  made  their  way  to  the  end  of  a  pier, 
where  this  young  man  of  yours  slipped  off  his 
stockings,  and,  as  well  as  I  could  tell,  for  I  was 
watching  at  a  distance,  concealed  some  bills  in  them, 
and  afterwards  drew  them  on  again.  It  struck  me  at 
once  that  if  the  mone}^  had  been  honestly  come  by, 
they  wouldn't  have  been  so  anxious  to  secrete  it." 

"  Sam,"  said  the  doctor,  sternl}^,  "  what  have  you 
to  say  to  this  charge  ?  " 

"  It  was  my  money,"  stammered  Sam. 

' '  What  did  you  put  it  in  your  stockings  for  ?  " 

' '  Jim  told  me  how  dangerous  it  was  to  carry  it 
round  in  my  pocket  loose.  So,  as  I  hadn't  any 
pocket-book,  I  put  it  in  my  stockings." 

*'Very  probable,  indeed.  Suppose  you  take  off 
your  stockings." 

Sam  had  decided  objections  to  this ;  but  he  saw 
that  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  urge  them,  and  slowly 
and  reluctantly  complied. 

*'  Now  put  in  your  hand,  and  take  out  the  money." 
Sam  did  so. 


234  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW;   OB, 

The  doctor  counted  the  bills. 

"Here  are  only  nine  dollars,"  he  said.  "Take 
out  the  rest." 

"  There  isn't  any  more,"  said  Sam. 

"Don't  attempt  to  deceive  me,"  said  his  em- 
ployer, sternly.  "It  will  be  the  worse  for  jou  if 
you  do." 

"  There  isn't  an^^  more,"  persisted  Sam,  earnestly. 
"  If  you  don't  believe  it,  you  may  look  yourself." 

Dr.  Graham  did  so,  and  found  the  statement 
correct. 

"  There  were  twent}^  dollars  in  the  letter,"  he  said, 
sternly.     * '  What  has  become  of  the  other  eleven  ?  " 

There  was  no  use  in  persisting  in  denial  further, 
and  Sam  made  a  wtue  of  necessity. 

"  Jim  got  half  the  money,"  he  confessed. 

"Who's  Jim?" 

"Jim  Nolan." 

"  How  came  he  to  get  half  the  money?  Did  you 
owe  it  to  him?" 

For  the  fii'st  time  it  struck  Sam  that  he  had  been 
a  fool  to  give   away  ten  dollars  without  adequate 


ADRIFT  IN   THE  STREETS.  235 

return.     All  that  Jim  had  given  him  was  bad  advice, 
which  is  never  worth  taking. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  came  to  give  it  to  him," 
said  Sam.  "  It  was  he  who  wanted  me  to  take  the 
money,     I  wouldn't  have  done  it  but  for  Jim." 

'•  It  strikes  me,"  said  Mr.  Clement,  "  that  Jim  is 
not  a  very  desirable  companion.  So  you  gave  him 
ten  dollars  ?  " 

''  Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  you  spend  any  of  the  money?"  asked  Dr. 
Graham. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"In  what  way?" 

*'  I  went  in  with  Jim,  and  played  a  game  of 
billiards." 

" Paying  for  the  game  with  my  money?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"What  else?" 

"  Jim  took  me  into  a  drinking-place,  and  treated 
me  to  a  whiskey-punch." 

"  Also  with  my  money,  I  suppose." 

"Yes,  sir;  he  wanted  to  get  the  ten-doUar  bill 
changed." 


236  THE    TOUKG    OUTLAW;    OR., 

"  Was  tMs  in  Brooklyn  or  New  York?  " 

"  In  Brooklyn." 

"Upon  my  word,  very  well  planned.  So  you 
expected  me  to  believe  your  stor}^  about  having  joui 
pocket  picked.     Did  you  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

*' A  pretty  story,  Mr.  Clement,"  said  the  doctor, 
turning  to  his  friend.  ' '  What  would  you  advise  me 
to  do,  —  arrest  the  boy  ?  " 

"Oh,  don't,"  implored  Sam,  turning  pale;  "I'll 
never  do  it  again." 

"You  won't  have  the  chance,"  said  the  doctor, 
drily. 

"If  you  ask  mj  advice,"  said  Mr.  Clement,  "I 
will  give  it.  I  suspect  this  Jim  is  the  worse  bo}^  of 
the  two.     Now  he's  got  ten  dollars  of  your  monej'-." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

' '  Do  you  mean  to  let  him  keep  it  ?  " 

"  He's  spent  part  of  it  by  this  time." 

"  You  can  get  the  rest  back." 

"  How  ?    I  don't  know  the  boy." 

"  You  know  his  name.     The  Superintendent  of  the 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  237 

Newsboys'  Lodging  House  could  probabty  put  jon  on 
his  track.     Besides,  j^our  boy  here  can  help  j^ou." 

"  I  don't  know  but  you  are  right." 

"  Sam,"  said  Mr.  Clement,  "  are  you  willing  to 
help  Dr.  Graham  get  back  his  money  ?  " 

"  I  don't  like  to  get  Jim  into  a  scrape,"  said  Sam. 

' '  It  seems  he's  got  you  into  a  scrape.  It  is  your 
only  chance  of  escaping  being  sent  to  Blackwell's 
Island." 

' '  "Will  Jim  be  sent  there  ?  " 

"  That  depends  on  the  doctor.  If  this  Jim  will 
give  back  what  he  has  of  the  money  jow.  gave  him, 
and  agi'ee  to  give  back  the  rest  as  soon  as  he  earns 
it,  I  think  the  doctor  will  let  him  off." 

"  Then  I'll  do  what  I  can,"  said  Sam. 

"As  for  you,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  shall  retain 
these  nine  dollars  ;  also  the  four  I  was  to  have  paid 
you  to-morrow.  .  If  I  get  back  the  full  amount  from 
your  confederate,  I  will  pay  you  the  difference. 
Now  how  can  you  get  at  this  Jim  ?  " 

''He'll  be  somewhere  around  City  Hall  Park," 
said  Sam. 

"  You  may  go  in  search  of  him.     Tell  him  to  come 


238  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;    OH, 

to  this  oflSce  with  you.  If  he  don't  come  he  will  be 
arrested,  and  I  will  have  no  mercy  upon  him.  If 
you  undertake  to  play  me  false,  the  same  fate  awaits 
you." 

"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  Sam.  "I'll  come  back, 
honor  bright !  " 

"  Do  you  think  he  will?  "  asked  Dr.  Graham,  turn- 
ing to  Mr.  Clement. 

"  Yes,  for  he  knows  it  wouldn't  be  safe  for  him  to 
stay  away." 

"Go  awa}^,  then,  and  come  back  as  soon  as 
possible." 

Sam  made  all  haste  to  the  City  Hall  Park,  where 
he  expected  to  find  Jim.  He  was  not  disappointed. 
Jim  was  sitting  on  one  of  the  steps  of  the  City  Hall 
smoking  a  cigar.  He  had  the  air  of  a  gentleman  of 
leisure  and  independent  income,  with  no  cares  to 
disturb  or  harass  him. 

He  did  not  see  Sam  till  the  latter  called  him  by 
name. 

"  Where'd  jou  come  from,  Sam?"  he  asked, 
placidly. 

"  From  the  oflSce." 


ABJLIFT  IN"  THE   STREETS.  239 

"  Did  the  boss  make  a  row  about  the  money  ?  " 

"You  bet  he  did!" 

"  He  didn't  find  out,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  he  did." 

Jim  looked  up  now. 

"Pie  don't  know  anything  about  me    does  he?" 
he  inquired. 

"  I  had  to  tell  him." 

"That's  mean!"  exclaimed  Jim.     "You'd  ought 
to  be  ashamed  to  tell  on  a  friend." 

"  I  had  to.  There  was  a  chap  —  a  friend  of  the 
doctor's  —  that  was  on  the  boat,  and  heard  us  talkin* 
about  the  money.  He  followed  us,  and  saw  me  stuff 
the  money  in  my  stockin'." 

Jim  indulged  in  a  profane  ejaculation. 

"  What's  he  goin'  to  do  about  it?"  he  asked. 

"  He's  made  me  give  up  the  money,  and  he's  sent 
me  for  you." 

"  I  won't  go,"  said  Jim,  hastily. 

"  You'd  better.     If  you  don't,  you'll  be  took  up." 

* '  What  am  I  to  go  to  the  office  for  ? "  asked  Jim, 
rather  startled. 

"  To  give  up  the  money." 


240  THE    TOUNG   OUTLAW;    OS, 

*'  I've  spent  two  dollars." 

"  If  3^011  give  -op  what's  left,  and  agree  to  pay 
the  rest,  he'll  let  you  off." 

"  Did  he  sa}'^  so?" 

"  Yes,  he  told  me  so." 

If  there  had  been  any  hope  of  escaping  with  the 
money,  Jim  would  have  declined  calling  on  Dr. 
Graham ;  but  of  that  he  knew  there  was  little  chance. 
Indeed,  he  was  not  altogether  unknown  to  the  ]3olice, 
having,  on  two  or  three  previous  occasions,  come 
under  their  notice.  So,  considerably  less  cheerful 
than  before,  he  accompanied  Sam  to  the  office. 

' '  Is  this  the  bo}^  ? "  asked  the  doctor,  surveying 
Sam's  companion  attentively. 

''  Yes,  sir." 

"I  am  glad  to  see  j^ou,  3'oung  man,"  said  the 
doctor,  dril}^  "  Suppose  we  settle  money  matters 
first  of  all.     How  much  have  joii  left  ?  " 

Jim  drew  out  eight  dollars  in  bills. 

"  So  far,  so  good.     You  owe  me  two  dollars." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  won't  ask  for  your  note  of  hand.  I'm  afraid  I 
couldn't  negotiate  it ;   but  I  expect  3'ou  to  pay  me 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS,  241 

back  the  balance  'by  instalments.  If  not,  I  shall 
know  where  to  lay  hold  of  jou." 

Jim  had  nothing  to  say. 

"Now  yon  can  go.     Sam,  yon  can  stay." 

"  I  snppose  he's  goin'  to  send  me  off,"  thought 
Sam. 

"You  may  stay  till  to-morrow  night,  Sam,"  said 
the  doctor,  ' '  and  I  will  pay  you  what  balance  I  owe 
you.  After  that,  I  thinlv  we  had  better  part  com- 
pany.    You  are  a  little  too  enterprising  for  me." 

Sam  made  no  objection.  In  fact,  he  had  got  tired 
of  the  confinement,  and  thought  it  would  be  an 
agreeable  variety  to  return  to  his  old  life  again. 
The  next  evening,  therefore,  he  retired  from  pro- 
fessional life,  and,  with  a  balance  of  fifty  cents  in  his 
possession,  set  up  once  more  as  a  street  vagabond. 
When  Jim  Nolan  paid  up  his  indebtedness,  he  would 
be  entitled  to  two  dollars  more.     Until  then  he  was 

held  for  the  debt  of  his  confederate. 
16 


18^42  TUB    YOUNG   OOTLiWt    OR<, 


CHAPTER    XXVI. 


PEPKIN  S    DmiNG-ROOMS. 


Sunday  is  a  dull  day  with  the  street-boys,  what- 
ever their  business  may  be.  The  boot-blacks  lose 
least,  but  if  the  day  be  tinpropitious  their  earnings 
are  small.  On  such  a  day  the  Newsbo^^s'  Lodge  is  a 
great  resomxe.  It  sujDplies  all  that  a  boj^  actually 
needs  —  lodging  and  two  meals  —  for  the  small  sum 
of  eighteen  cents,  and  in  cases  of  need  will  trust 
boys  to  that  amount. 

Sam  naturally  had  recourse  to  this  hold  on  finding 
himself  out  of  a  situation.  He  had  enough  to  pay 
his  expenses,  and  did  not  feel  compelled  to  go  to 
work  till  Monday.  Monday  morning,  however,  the 
reduced  state  of  his  finances  compelled  him  to  look 
for  employment.  If  he  had  had  a  little  capital  he 
might  have  set  up  as  a  newsboj^  or  boot-black,  but 
five  cents  can  hardly  be  considered  sufficient  capital 
for  either  of  these  lines  of  business.     Credit  is  the 


ADBIFT  IN  THE  STREETS,  243 

next  best  thing  to  capital,  but  Sam  bad  no  credit. 
He  found  that  out,  after  an  ineffectual  attempt  to 
borrow  money  of  a  boot-black,  who,  having  ten 
dollars  in  a  savings-bank,  was  regarded  in  his  own 
class  with  high  respect  as  a  wealthy  capitalist.  The 
name  of  this  exceptional  young  man  was  William 
Clark,  better  known  among  the  boys  as  Eeady 
Money  Bill. 

When  twelve  o'clock  came,  and  Sam  had  earned 
nothing,  he  bethought  himself  of  Bill,  the  capitalist. 

"  Bill,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to  borrer  a  dollar." 

*'  You  do  !  "  said  Bill,  sharply.     "  What  for  ?  " 

"  To  set  me  up  in  business." 

' '  What  business  ?  " 

*'  Evenin'  papers." 

**  Haven't  you  got  no  stamps?" 

*'  No." 

"  What  have  you  been  doin*  ?  " 

"  I've  been  in  an  oflSce." 

"  Why  didn't  you  stay  ?  " 

"  The  boss  thought  he  wouldn't  need  me  no 
longer." 

"  I  see,"  said  Bill,  nodding.     ''  You  got  sacked." 


244  THE   YOUNG  OUTLAW;   OJ?j 

"  Not  exactly." 

''  Same  thing." 

"  Will  you  lend  me  the  money?" 

"I'd  never  get  it  back  ag'in." 

"  Yes,  you  would." 

''  I  dunno  about  that.  Where'd  you  get  money  to 
pay  me  back  ?  " 

"  The  boss  owes  me  two  dollars." 

' '  Wh}^  don*t  he  pay  you  ?  " 

"  One  of  my  friends  cheated  him  out  of  it,  and  he 
won't  pay  me  till  it's  paid  back." 

''  Ma}' be  he  won't  pay  it  back." 

"  Yes,  he  will.     Will  you  lend  me  the  money? " 

"  No,  I  won't.  You'd  ought  to  have  saved  money 
like  I  have." 

"  I'd  have  had  two  dollars,  if  Jim  hadn't  stolen 
money." 

"That  aint  my  fault.  I  aint  goin'  to  lose  my 
money  for  you.     You  can  save  like  I  do." 

Bill  was  right,  no  doubt.  He  was  a  bee,  and  Sam 
was  a  drone,  and  the  drones  are  alwaj's  ready  to 
avail  themselves  of  the  accumulations  of  thek  more 
industrious  brothers. 


ABRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS*  245 

Sam  began  to  feel  hungry.  However  irregular  he 
might  be  in  other  ways,  his  appetite  was  surprisingly 
regular.  He  paused  in  front  of  a  restaurant,  and 
looked  wistfully  in  at  the  windows. 

"I  wish  I  was  a  waiter,"  he  thought.  "They 
have  all  they  want  to  eat  every  day." 

It  will  be  seen  that  Sam's  ambition  was  not  a  lofty 
one.  But  then  he  was  practical  enough  to  see  that 
three  square  meals  a  day  are  more  to  be  desired  than 
empty  fame. 

As  he  was  standing  at  the  window  a  man  from 
within  came  to  the  door.  Being  without  a  hat,  Sam 
supposed  him  to  be  connected  with  the  restaurant, 
as,  indeed,  he  was.  Sam  drew  back,  supposing  that 
he  was  to  be  sent  off.     But  here  he  was  mistaken. 

"  Come  here,  Johnny,"  said  the  proprietor,  for  it 
was  the  owner  of  the  restaurant  who  addressed  oui 
hero. 

Sam  approached  wondering. 

''  Have  you  had  dinner?" 

"  No,"  said  Sam,  promptly. 

"  "Would  you  like  some  ?  '* 


246  THE   YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OB, 

Sam*s  answer,  in  tlie  affirmative,  was  equally 
prompt. 

''  But  you  haven't  any  money,  eh?" 

"  That's  so,"  said  Sam.  ''  Wonder  how  he  found 
out?"   he  thought. 

''We  don't  give  away  dinners,  but  you  can  earn 
one,"  said  Mr.  Pipkin,  for  it  was  Pipkin's  restaurant. 

"Do  you  want  me  for  a  waiter?"  asked  Sam, 
hopefully. 

"No;  you  wouldn't  do.  You  haven't  had  ex- 
perience. I  want  a  boy  to  distribute  handbills  in 
front  of  the  saloon.     Can  j^ou  do  that?" 

"Yes,  I  can,"  said  Sam,  eagerlj^  "Pve  done 
that  before." 

"  All  right.     Come  in." 

Sam  entered.  He  hoped  that  a  preliminary  dinner 
would  be  offered  him,  but  Mr.  Pipkin  was  not  in  the 
habit  of  pajdng  in  advance,  and,  perhaps,  he  was 
right.  He  brought  forward  a  pile  of  circulars  about 
the  same  size  as  Dr.  Graham's,  and  handed  them  to 
Sam. 

"  I've  just  opened  a  new  saloon,"  he  said,  "  and  I 


ADRIFT  IN   THE    STREETS,  247 

want  to  invite  the  patronage  of  the  public.  Stand 
here,  and  distribute  these  to  the  passers-by." 

''  All  right,"  said  Sam.  "  When  will  you  give  me 
some  dinner?" 

"  In  about  an  hour.  This  is  the  time  when  people 
generally  dine,  and  I  want  to  catch  as  manj''  as  I 
can." 

Sam  read  one  of  the  circulars  rapidl5^ 

This  is  the  way  it  read :  — 

^'PIPKIN'S   DINING-ROOMS. 

Unsurpassed  for  the  excellence  of  cookery^  and  the' 

cheapness  of  prices. 

Call  once, 

And  you  will  he  sure  to  come  again." 

t'Tm  goin'  to  come  once,  and  FU  call  again  if 
they'll  let  me,"  said  Sam  to  himself. 

In  about  an  hour  he  was  called  in.  The  customers 
had  thinned  out,  but  there  were  a  few  at  the  tables. 
Sam  was  directed  to  sit  down  at  a  table  in  the  back 
part  of  the  room. 

"Now,  then,"  said  the  waiter,  "hurry  up,  young 
*un,  and  tell  us  what  you  want." 


248  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OR^ 

"Roast  turkej^  and  cranberry  sauce,"  ordered  Sam. 

"  All  out.     Tr^^  again,"  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"  Roast  chicken." 

"That's  all  out  too." 

Sam  looked  disappointed. 

"  Oyster  stew." 

"All  out." 

"  Is  ever^'thing  out?" 

"No;  there's  some  roast  veal,  unless  you  prefer 
hash." 

"I  don't  like  hash,"  said  Sam,  decidedly.  "Bring 
on  your  veal,  and  don't  forget  the  potatoes,  and  some 
bread  and  butter." 

"  You've  got  a  healthy  appetite,"  said  the  waiter. 

"You  bet  I  have,  and  I've  a  right  to  it.  I've 
earned  my  dinner,  and  I  want  it." 

The  'articles  he  had  ordered  were  brought,  and  he 
attacked  them  with  vigor.  Then  he  called  for  a 
second  course. 

"A  piece  of  mince-pie." 

"  All  out,"  said  the  waiter. 

"Apple-pie." 

"That's  out." 


ADRIFT  JxV  THE   STREETS.  249 

*'I  guess  your  customers  all  had  healthy  appetites 
today,"  said  Sam.  "Bring  on  something  or  other, 
and  mind  3^ou  bring  enough  of  it." 

A  plate  of  rice-pudding  was  set  before  him,  and 
speedily  appropriated.  He  tried  to  get  a  second 
plate,  but  his  application  was  unsuccessful.  He  was 
given  to  understand  that  he  was  entitled  to  only  one 
plate,  and  was  forced  to  rise  from  the  table  not 
wholly  satisfied. 


250  THE   YOVNG  OUTLAW;   oh^ 


CHAPTEE    XXYII. 


CONCLUSION. 


Sam  did  not  retain  Ms  new  position  long.  A  v^eek 
later  he  was  dismissed.  Though  no  reason  was 
assigned,  the  proprietor  probably  thought  it  letter 
to  engage  a  boy  with  a  smaller  appetite.  But  Sam 
was  by  no  means  discouraged.  He  was  more  self- 
reliant  than  when  nearly  a  year  before  he  entered  the 
city,  and  more  confident  of  rubbing  along  somehow. 
If  he  could  not  sell  papers,  he  could  black  boots. 
If  wholl}'  without  capital,  he  could  haunt  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  ]piers,  and  seek  emplojnnent  as  a 
baggage-smasher. 

For  the  next  two  years  it  will  be  unnecessary  to 
detail  Sam's  experiences.  They  did  not  differ  mate- 
rially^ from  those  of  other  street-boj^s,  —  now  a  day 
of  plenty,  now  of  want,  now  a  stroke  of  luck,  which 
made  him  feel  rich  as  a  millionnaire,  now  a  season  of 
bad  fortune.     Day  by  day,  and  week  by  week,  his 


ADRIFT  IN  THE   STREETS.  251 

refiollections  of  his  countrj^  home  became  more  vague, 
mA  he  could  hardly  realize  that  he  had  ever  lived 
f  .ywhere  else  than  in  the  streets  of  New  York.     It 

as  at  this  time  that  the  unexpected  encounter  with 
beacon  Hopkins  brought  back  the  memories  of  his 
early  life,  and  led  him  to  contrast  them  curiously 
with  his  present  experiences.  There  did  not  seem 
much  for  Sam  to  be  proud  of,  ragged  vagabond  as 
he  was ;  but  for  all  that  he  looked  down  upon  his 
former  self  with  ineffable  contempt. 

' '  What  a  greenhorn  I  was  when  I  first  came  to  the 
city  ! "  he  reflected.  "  How  easy  I  was  took  in  !  I 
didn't  know  nothin'  about  life  then.  How  sick  I  was 
when  I  smoked  my  first  cigar !  Now,  I  can  smoke 
half  a  dozen,  one  after  the  other,  onl}^  I  can't  raise 
the  stamps  to  buy 'em.  Howl  fooled  the  deacon, 
though ! "  and  Sam  laughed  in  hearty  enjoyment  of 
the  joke.  "I  wonder  what'll  he  say  of  me  when  he 
gets  back." 

Sam  plunged  his  hands  deep  down  into  his  pockets. 
There  was  nothing  to  hinder,  for,  as  usual,  they  were 
empty.  He  had  spent  the  small  amount  obtained 
from  the  deacon,  and  he  was  just  even  with  the 


252  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OH, 

world.  He  had  neither  debts  nor  assets.  He  had 
only  daily  recurring  wants,  and  these  he  was  not 
always  able  to  supply. 

It  was  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  made  memorable 
by  his  interview  with  the  deacon  that  another  adven- 
ture befell  Sam.  As  it  exhibits  him  in  a  more 
favorable  light  than  usual,  I  am  glad  to  chronicle  it. 

He  was  lounging  about,  waiting  for  something  to 
turn  up,  when  he  felt  a  little  hand  slipped  into  his, 
and  heard  a  small  voice  pleading,  "  Take  me  home. 
Tmlost." 

Sam  looked  down  in  surprise  to  find  his  hand 
clasped  by  a  little  boy,  apparently  about  four  years 
of  age.  What  attracted  him  to  Sam  is  uncertain. 
Possibly  his  face  seemed  familiar  to  the  little 
boy. 

"What's  your  name,  Johnny?"  asked  Sam,  gently. 

"My  name  aint  Johnny;  it's  Bertie,'*  said  the 
little  boy. 

' '  What's  your  other  name  ?  " 

"Dalton." 

"  Bertie  Dalton?" 

"  Yes.     I  want  to  go  home." 


ADRIFT  IJSr  THE  STREETS,  253 

*' So  you  shall,"  said  Sam,  good-naturedly,  "if 
you'll  tell  me  where  you  live." 

' '  Don't  you  know  ?  "  asked  Bertie. 

"No." 

"I  thought  you  did,"  said  Bertie,  disappointed. 
"  I  want  to  go  home  to  mamma." 

Sam  was  puzzled. 

"  How  did  you  come  to  be  lost?"  he  asked. 

"  I  went  out  with  Marie — that's  the  nurse  —  and 
when  she  was  talking  with  another  nurse  I  went  to 
play.  Then  I  couldn't  find  her,  and  I'm  so  fright- 
ened." 

"Don't  be  frightened,  Bertie,"  said  Sam,  gently; 
for  his  heart  was  drawn  to  the  little  fellow.  "I 
guess  I'll  find  your  home.  Let  me  guess.  Do  you 
live  in  Twentieth  street  ?  " 

Bertie  shook  his  head. 

"  Where  were  you  playing?" 

"In  the  Park." 

"  It  must  be  Union  Park,"  thought  Sam. 

An  idea  struck  him.  He  went  into  a  neighboring 
druggist's,  and,  asking  for  a  directory,  turned  to  the 
list  of  Daltons.    There  was  only  one  living  near 


254  THE    YOUNG   OUTLAW;   OH, 

Union  Park ;  this  one  lived  on  Fourtecinth  street, 
between  Sixth  and  Seventh  avenues.  Sam  decided 
to  take  the  child  into  this  street,  and  see  if  he  recog- 
nized it.  The  experiment  proved  successful.  Ar- 
rived in  the  street  the  child  cried  joyfully :  — 

"  This  is  where  I  live." 

"  Can  you  find  the  house  ?  " 

''  Yes  ;  it's  right  on,"  said  Bertie. 

In  brief,  Sam  took  Bertie  home.  He  found  the 
family  in  great  distress.  The  nurse  had  returned, 
and  declared  incoherently  that  Master  Bertie  had 
been  carried  off,  and  she  couldn't  find  him  anj^where. 
A  message  was  about  to  be  sent  to  the  police  when 
the  young  truant  was  brought  home.  The  mother 
clasped  him  fondly  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  him  many 
times.     Then  she  bethought  herself  of  Sam. 

"How  can  I  thank  you,"  she  said  gratefully,  "  for 
bringing  my  darling  home  ?  " 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,"  said  Sam.  "  I  was  afraid  at 
first  I  couldn't  find  where  he  lived ;  but  he  told  me 
his  name,  and  I  looked  in  the  director}^" 

Mrs.  Dalton  saw  that  Sam  was  ragged,  and  her 
grateful  heart  prompted  her  to  do  something  for  him. 


ADRIFT  IN  THE  STREETS.  255 

"  Have  you  any  i^lace?  "  slie  asked. 

"No,"  said  Sam. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  one?  " 

"Yes,  I  should,"  said  Sam,  promptly.  "  It*3 
hard  work  getting  a  living  about  tke  streets." 

"It  must  be,"  said  the  lady,  with  s^Tupathy. 
" Have  you  no  friends?  " 

"None,  except  poor  boys  like  I  am." 

"You  have  been  kind  to  my  dear  Bertie,  and  1 
want  to  do  sometliing  to  show  m}"  gratitude.  With- 
out you  I  shudder  to  think  what  might  have  become 
of  him." 

"Nobody'd  hurt  a  little    chap    like    him,"   said 

Sam. 

"They  might  steal  him,"  said  Mrs.  Dalcon. 
"  Have  you  had  any  dinner? " 

"  No,  ma'am." 

"  Come  into  the  house.  Maggie,  see  that  this  boy 
has  a  good  meal.  Take  care  of  him  till  Mr.  Dalton 
comes  home.  Then  I  will  see  what  can  be  done  for 
him." 

"All  right,  mum." 

Sam  had  no  objections  to  this  arrangement.     He 


256  THE   YOUNG   OUTLAW. 

was  never  at  a  loss  for  an  appetite,  and  tlie  prospect 
was  an  attractive  one.  He  made  himself  at  home  in 
the  Idtchen,  where  his  rescue  of  little  Bertie  and  the 
evident  favor  of  Mrs.  Dalton  made  him  the  recipient 
of  much  attention.  He  felt  that  he  was  in  luck  for 
once  in  his  life,  and  was  convinced  of  it  when,  on 
the  arrival  of  Mr.  Dalton,  he  was  offered  the  post  of 
errand-boj  at  five  dollars  a  week,  with  a  present  of 
five  dollars  in  advance.  He  asked  no  time  for  con- 
sideration, but  accepted  at  once. 

* '  You  may  report  for  service  to-morrow  morning," 
said  Mr.  Dalton.  "There  is  my  business-card. 
Can  you  find  it  ?  " 

"  I  know  where  it  is,"  said  Sam.  "  I'll  be  there." 
Sam's  chance  had  come.  He  was  invited  to  fill  an 
humble  but  respectable  position.  Would  he  give 
satisfaction,  or  drift  back  after  a  while  to  his  vaga- 
bond habits  ?  Young  outlaw  as  he  had  been,  was  he 
lilvely  to  grow  into  an  orderlj^  member  of  society? 
If  any  of  my  readers  are  curious  on  this  subject,  the}'' 
are  referred  to  the  next  volume  of  this  series,  entitled 
sam's   chance; 

AND    HOW    HE    IMPROVED    IT. 


^.v':S:  i 


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v!^''v'<"'i''S'''fe-'';-' '■■■■■ 


